The One That Got Away
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: When bodies with strange neck wounds start piling up in the city morgue, Scott and Stiles realize they're up against a new enemy. At the same time, a dark figure from Stiles' past returns, putting him in danger. Will his friends be able to protect him, or will the darkness finally claim him? Sequel to my story "Runaway." Set post season 3b. COMPLETE! {24,000 views & counting!}
1. Chapter 1: Head-Case

_**Welcome to the thrilling and angsty sequel to "Runaway." (You'll want to read that fic before checking out this one.)**_ **Set post season 3b:** _ **When bodies with the same strange wounds start piling up in the Beacon Hills' morgue, Stiles and Scott begin their investigation, and someone from Stiles' past returns.**_ ** **Rated Teen**** _ ** _ **for violence and gore, mentions of sexuality, and some coarse language.**_  
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 _ **I'm excited about this one. I had fun writing this, and I hope you have fun reading! Thank you for everyone who read, reviewed, and faved "Runaway." Your support made this sequel possible. Don't forget to leave a review! =)**_

 **Please note:** _ **Stydia is my OTP, and there will be elements of that pairing in this fic. If you squint, you may be able to find some Sciles.**_

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 **The One That Got Away**

 **Chapter One: Head Case**

 _You're a trouble-maker, aren't you Stiles? You're a bad boy. I'm going to show you what happens to naughty boys. The monster always gets them in the end._

"Dude, are you even listening to me?" Scott McCall asked, his tone a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

"What?"

"Did you zone out on me or something? You were just staring into your locker with this blank look on your face."

"No, I heard what you were saying," Stiles said, slamming shut his locker. Closing the door on the eerily familiar and intimate voice, as though he could trap it within the confines of his school reality between math textbooks, gym socks, and a half-eaten bologna sandwich. "You have feelings for Kira but losing Allison really hurt – of course it did, she was your first love."

Scott nodded.

"I don't know what to tell you, man. You're the one with all the relationship experience." If the two of them weren't talking about supernatural creatures, trying to solve this problem or defeat that villain, they usually seemed to be talking about girls. In that, at least, they were typical teenage boys. But part of Stiles was getting sick of it, sick of talking about the same things over and over again, the same issues, hearing the same sentences and anxieties surging from Scott's mouth. He had literally only had sex once – with a werecoyote.

He missed the days he and Scott talked about things other than raging, homicidal paranormal monsters and the equally complex world of dating – especially when all the girls around them had secrets and mysterious abilities. Talk about complicated. Normal girls were hard enough to figure out.

When was the last time the two of them had played a video game or gone swimming, sat on the McCalls' porch swing and made grandiose plans for after graduation – success, fame, fortune, getting out of Beacon Hills once and for all.

"Are you alright? You don't look so good."

"Yeah. I'm just tired. I didn't get much sleep last night."

Maybe an hour in total, broken up by periods of unrelenting nightmares. The nogitsune, the darkness, the kanima, werewolves, the man with the smirk and blue eyes.

Scott raised one eyebrow skeptically. Stiles could feel his best friend's brown eyes boring into him, searching, penetrating the mask, trying to see within. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Stiles wasn't sure "okay" existed for him anymore - a golden and contented state that had once been possible _before._ Now it was just some mythological and transcendent state of being he had heard existed but could never quite reach. Between werewolves and hunters, dark druids and ritual sacrifices, lacrosse-playing kanimas and having a demon take up residence inside his body and mind, Stiles surprised himself each day he climbed out of bed and found the strength to get showered and dressed, go to school and resist the urge to put a bullet through his head. Live another day pretending everything was normal – whatever the hell "normal" was.

Scott was still staring at him.

"I'm fine, _Mom._ Stop worrying." Stiles chuckled lightly and heaved his backpack over his right shoulder.

Scott eyed him doubtfully, but didn't push the issue. Stiles had gotten so good at putting on an act, performing his little charade of survival – Best Actor in a Never-Ending Tragedy – sometimes he even fooled himself.

Scott suspected Stiles was repressing his pain, keeping his fear and anxiety bottled inside, holding onto secrets that were slowly tearing him apart. It bothered him that Stiles wouldn't talk to him, lay it all out on the table; it bothered him that Stiles felt he needed to conceal his suffering, like he had hidden the amount of physical pain he was in after the nogitsune was wrenched from his body; but Scott was too absorbed in his own grief to ask. The pain in his chest kept him from determinedly pressing Stiles, digging deeper until he discovered the truth, no matter how many walls Stiles put up to keep him and everyone else out.

"You know you can talk to me, right? About anything."

"What is this, a Dear Susie column?"

"I'm serious."

Stiles sighed. "Yeah, totally. I know I can."

 _Liar._ Stiles couldn't talk to anyone, least of all Scott. Couldn't begin to explain the guilt and fear inside, the suffocating darkness, the prison of his own mind. The nightmares. The images that haunted him even in the light of day, empty spaces where familiar faces should be, horrors where none existed, the consequences of everything he had done – the nogitsune had done; where was the line? He saw, or imagined he could see, the resentment in the eyes of those closest to them. The anger at what he had done, the blame and contempt. It was right they should blame him, he thought. It was his fault they had all suffered, his fault Allison and Aiden were dead.

Just when Stiles had started to hope he was free of one monster living inside his head, another had taken residence. Returned, after all this time. Maybe he never really left.

Scott didn't know about Marshall Landry. Stiles had never told him what had happened the night he ran away freshman year. It had taken him days after that night to finally work up the courage to face his best friend. Scott had been so worried Stiles would be mad because he had broken his promise, had broken down and told his mother Stiles had run away, and then told Sheriff Stilinski, though he had promised he wouldn't. Stiles had hugged him and told him, over and over, that he was _glad_ Scott had broken his promise, that he had sent Stiles' father after him. But Scott didn't know the fullness of that gratitude and relief, didn't know that the consequences of keeping his promise and staying quiet would have been far more catastrophic and horrifying than breaking it.

Stiles couldn't tell him. He could never describe how cold the gun barrel felt pressed against his exposed skin, could never explain how sometimes monsters wear the masks of friendly and benevolent strangers. He could never tell him how it felt – repulsive and frightening, wishing he could jump free of his own skin, could crawl into a hole and hide, die, rather than have that man's hands all over his body, desiring him, violating him; those blue eyes – ravenous – ravaging him; that slick, smug smile on his face, and Stiles powerless to stop any of it. To have come that close to a four letter word policemen and broken women spoke in hushed whispers, having always consoled himself with the belief that "it will never happen to me." The trauma, because it almost _had_ happened, caused him to see malice in the face of every dark-haired man. Woke him up in the dead of night to see Marshall standing over him. The sickening, paranoid, and inescapable idea that somehow he had it coming, that he deserved it, that he was disgusting and dirty – damaged goods. The fear that if anyone ever found out they'd see him differently, that no girl would ever want to be with him, that everyone he knew would shun him, turn away in disgust, whisper about him in the hallways; rumors battering and oppressing him, reshaping him, defining him based on that one night, holding him down, keeping him from ever being anything but a victim. Loathed for having been what they themselves were fearful of becoming.

No one would understand.

Not even Scott.

The bell rang for class. Scott and Stiles walked down the hall together, Scott's shoulder bumping into him periodically. "How's Derek doing?" Stiles asked, redirecting the conversation away from himself. "I haven't seen him lately." Not that this was overly strange; Stiles had barely spoken to anyone recently. He hadn't yet discerned if this was because he had imposed isolation on himself or if everyone was avoiding him. Probably it was a combination of both.

"I haven't seen him either," Scott admitted, eyebrows knitting together. He hadn't noticed Derek's absence until Stiles mentioned him. "I wonder why he hasn't contacted us."

 _I'm probably to blame for that too,_ Stiles thought bitterly, but merely shrugged. "He's probably busy."

"Doing what?"

"Being the epitome of manliness? Doing ab crunches while eating raw steak with his bare hands? Shooting a new commercial for Axe body-spray? _How should I know?_ "

Scott smiled at Stiles' attempt at humor. It was kinda lame, compared to the high quality of his usual wit, but it was good to hear Stiles' sarcasm again. It gave him reason to hope everything was going to be okay.

They took their seats in American History, one beside the other. Kira slid into the vacant seat in front of Scott and smiled gently. Scott smiled back.

Stiles glanced out the window or, rather, in the general direction of the windows, where Lydia sat. Her strawberry-blond hair a perfect halo, illuminated by the afternoon sun. Her cherry lips rested in a preoccupied pout as she traced designs on her notebook with a pencil, waiting for class to start. She didn't look at him, though she knew he was watching her. Even from a distance, he could see the hurt in her lovely green eyes.

But maybe that was because he noticed everything about Lydia Martin.

Scott leaned over and whispered, "Maybe you should talk to her."

"I can't. Not yet."

It was a vague, non-committal answer, but Scott nodded in understanding.

The teacher had just begun to take attendance when Malia Tate sauntered into the room, her denim-clad hips swaying confidently. She claimed the empty seat beside Stiles, all cool energy and self-possession, the kind of assurance that only comes with having been at the top of the food chain. She grinned at Stiles, her canine incisors sharp and dazzlingly white, flipping back her long brown hair.

Being a girl again was certainly working well for her. It didn't hurt matters any that she happened to be a _hot_ girl. How could he – and every other guy in their grade – _not_ think about sex just looking at her?

Stiles returned her smile, remembering their oddly-timed night of passion in the basement of Eichen House. The taste of her mouth; the touch of her hands; her fingernails clawing into his back; the almost primal hunger that overtook them, as they explored each other's bodies and gave into carnal desires. He was her first, and she was his.

Stiles felt a rush of pleasant heat at the memory, dulled only by the bittersweet and intrusive realization he had always imagined Lydia would be the girl he gave his virginity to; that his first time with her would be passionate but also tender and gentle, his love for her making up for his inexperience. And she would teach him, showing him where to place his hands, revealing to him how she liked it best.

 _You'll like it, I promise._

Suddenly, the voice was there, smooth and sly as the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Genial, knowing, triumphant, even affectionate, as it whispered such horrible things in his ear.

Stiles tried to prevent the onslaught of memories that overcame him, to shut them out of his mind. But it was useless. He hadn't had any real control over his thoughts since the Nemeton. Snatches from that night played out before him like scenes from a movie. Real and vivid, nightmares he couldn't escape even when he was awake.

 _Marshall's fingers on the back of his neck, his thigh. "You have a very fair complexion, a wonderfully articulate face, very poignant...like a vampire prince." The impersonal metal of the gun pressed into the small of his back, his temple – biting. Its cold touch more welcome than the warm hands inside his shirt; his first caresses from a serial killer. Eyes raw with tears, the ignored protests cried from a parched throat. "You're such a nice-looking kid." The earth hard and damp, sticks and rocks poking into his stomach, a knee rammed into his spinal cord. The clink of a belt buckle, reflecting the glow of a campfire and the waning light of the moon. The jeans his father had picked out for him being tugged down. "You'll like it, I promise."_

 _I'll show you what happens to misbehaved boys._

"Stilinski. Stilinski. Mr. Stilinksi are you with us?"

"Stiles." Scott nudged him in the side. Stiles jumped and blinked several times, clearing the images from his brain.

"Can you repeat the question?"

Students around him snickered.

"I didn't ask you a question. I'm simply taking roll-call, Mr. Stilinski."

"Oh, well, present." Stiles did his best to paste on a smile.

"Are you sure about that?" The history teacher glanced at him over the top of his black-framed glasses.

"Actually, can I go to the bathroom?" The teacher lifted a hall-pass from his desk and gestured towards the door. "Thank you."

Hushed laughter and sneers followed him as he walked to the front of the classroom. "What a head-case," someone jeered. _If they only knew._

Stiles hid himself in a stall, ignoring the stench of urine and hand-soap. He pressed his back against the wall, knees bent and tucked close to his chest. He covered his head with his hands, and took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. This couldn't be happening, not again. He was supposed to be over this. He had spent the entire summer before sophomore year working through this ordeal – had talked to a therapist, swallowed the pills she had prescribed, and done all the mental exercises she suggested. He stopped shrinking away from physical touch, and he stopped being afraid of his own shadow. After months of waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in a cold sweat, he had finally stopped seeing Marshall in his nightmares.

Now he was back, and Stiles didn't know why.

Maybe the nogitsune incident had jarred loose old and painful memories.

Fifteen minutes passed before Scott came and found him. "I thought you'd be here sooner," Stiles admitted, opening the door to his friend's light knock. Scott slid down the wall to sit beside him.

"I didn't think you'd _actually_ go to the bathroom."

"Just needed some privacy, I guess."

They were silent for a minute. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"This doesn't seem like 'fine.'"

"If you're worried I'm losing my grip on reality or that I'm slowly being possessed again, you can relax," Stiles snapped. "I can read just fine. I know this isn't a dream." But he silently counted his fingers on both hands just in case.

"I'm just worried about you, Stiles."

Stiles sighed. Here he was, being the bad guy again. "I know you are. I just, I'm dealing with some stuff right now – alone. I need some time to figure out what's going on, okay? Then I'll let you in, I promise." He saw that Scott was about to protest. "That's the best I can offer you right now, man."

Scott considered. "Alright, but if anything weird starts happening, you gotta clue me in."

"Deal."

The bathroom door opened, and a trio of juniors entered. Stiles and Scott stilled instantly, smiling humorously to each other, both wondering what the teens would think if they found the two of them sitting alone together on the toilet floor.

The unmistakable click of a lighter being flicked, followed by the heavy stench of marijuana, and a deep sigh. "Damn, that's good." Stiles recognized the voice of Matteo Venturini. "I couldn't have gone another fifteen minutes listening to Moore discuss human reproduction."

"Was he using his wooden models again?"

"You know it."

"Gross." The second voice was Matteo's weaselly little friend, Dale. Or, as everyone called him, "Rodent." The joint was passed to him, his breathing as nasally as his voice when he inhaled.

Scott motioned to Stiles that they should leave or they'd both end up reeking of pot. Stiles nodded. As they stood, the third voice asked, "Hey, did you guys hear?" Stiles grabbed Scott's shoulder to express that they should stay and listen. _Trigg Andrews,_ he mouthed, referring to the younger brother of one his father's longest lasting deputies. He and Trigg had hung around some when they were younger, attending Christmas parties at the station and that kind of thing. Now the only times Trigg entered the station were when he was being booked. Yet he and Stiles had one thing in common - having a police member in the family meant being privy to information.

"Hear what?"

"They found another body this morning. A hiker found him out in the woods or something. Same wounds in the neck as the others, a real bloody mess. Drained _completely_ dry."

"Gnarly."

"Gross," Rodent repeated.

Stiles glanced at Scott.

"That's the fourth one in less than two weeks. The police think there might be another serial killer on the loose."

Stiles threw open the stall door. It crashed loudly, startling all three potheads. Trigg dropped the joint. Matteo regained his composure first. "What the fuck you two homos doing?" Stiles crossed the room in two easy strides. He ignored Matteo. Punks like Venturini didn't bother him; he'd faced much worse and lived. He stared Trigg down, and smiled knowingly. "Hey, _pal._ If you don't want the principal finding out who has been smoking pot in the bathrooms, I suggest you tell me everything your brother told you."


	2. Chapter 2: Puncture Wounds

**Just a reminder: this story is a sequel. Later chapters will lose their significance unless you read "Runaway"; I'm making a lot of connections back to that first fic. =)**

 **Thanks for reading!**

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 **Chapter Two: Puncture Wounds**

After school ended for the day, Stiles and Scott drove the Jeep to the Sheriff's Station, hoping to follow-up on the lead they'd received from Trigg. They were hit by a wall of air conditioning and noise as they opened the door. The station was a bustle of activity – deputies hurrying between rooms carrying bags of evidence and thick case files; a twenty-something man dressed in shorts and hiking boots was sitting at a desk, his eyes wide and panicked; a female deputy sat on a bench with a distraught middle-aged woman and her young daughter, her voice soft and gentle as she did her best to console them – a scene Stiles was far too familiar with – while in the room behind them the woman's husband, a burly man in his late forties, his face simultaneously angry and downcast, yelled at a mild-mannered cop. Parrish was attempting to dismiss a pushy journalist, who had her tape-recorder shoved under the young officer's chiseled chin as she assaulted him with a barrage of questions.

"Hey Parrish, is my dad here?"

"He's in his office. Go right in, Stiles. I'm sure he'll appreciate the interruption. It's a circus around here today." Parrish waved flippantly in the direction of the attractive young journalist, and she humphed in indignation.

Stiles led Scott to his father's office. He knocked once and opened the door. Sheriff John Stilinski was leaning over his desk, palms planted firmly on the wooden surface, considering a mess of papers and photographs spread out before him. An outside observer might have questioned the sheriff's ability to make sense of anything in the apparent random chaos scattered across the desk, but Stiles knew there must be some order to the chaos, a pattern his father was searching for, re-arranging this photo or that crime scene report, as he attempted to make connections. He looked up when they entered.

"Hi, Dad."

"Oh, brother." Sheriff Stilinski sighed and stood up straight. His sheriff's jacket was hung on the back of his chair, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He adjusted his left cuff. "I should have known you two would be by."

Stilinski grabbed an empty mug off the desk, leaving a brown ring on an old napkin. He strolled over to the percolator in the corner of his office. He slowly and deliberately poured himself a lukewarm mug of black coffee and took several large gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow, before pouring himself another. Bold green letters on white porcelain read, "World's Greatest Dad;" a slight chip in the rim, like the tea-cup in _Beauty and the Beast_. His favorite mug, despite its ordinariness. A Father's Day gift from more years back than he cared to count.

"What's going on? Rumor is there might be another serial killer loose in Beacon Hills." Only weeks ago the town had been tormented by a string of murders committed by a Darach – a dark druid performing ritual sacrifices in groups of threes. Sheriff Stilinski himself almost became one of her victims. Before that murderer there had been a vengeful teenage psycho controlling a clawed reptilian werewolf-wannabe, and before _that_ a power-hungry werewolf uncle who had recently returned from the dead. And those were just the occurrences Stiles and Scott had been involved in. Boxes of unsolved cases were piled high in a back corner. The sheriff had dug them out of storage and started sifting through their contents, looking for clues he had missed before – elements of the supernatural realm he had recently learned existed.

Apparently serial killings were becoming as intrinsic to Beacon Hills as California sunshine. It was a wonder people weren't moving out of the city in droves, seeking safer places to raise their families.

"Where exactly do you pick up these rumors?"

Stiles shrugged, and his father arched an eyebrow, but let the question drop. "Mind if I take a look?" Stiles asked.

Sheriff Stilinski rubbed his face with a calloused hand. There were wine-colored circles forming under his eyes, a hint of stubble shaded his jaw. He gave a slight motion of his hand, a do-what-you-want non-verbal assent that freed him from any liability. He knew if he didn't let Stiles look over the case files now, he'd just be back later – sneaking in illegally once the sun had gone down. Plus, he could use the help. His son had an amazing knack for discerning patterns.

Stiles immediately began sifting through the files on his father's desk, poring over names and detailed reports, witness statements and coroner's accounts, crime scene photos full of blood and pale corpses. All the victims were male, but the similarities ended there. They were from different ethnic, cultural, and socio-economic backgrounds; different sexual orientations; and had been raised in different cities. The most recent victim wasn't even from California.

The first victim was Jackson "Jack" Lewis, 41. A down-on-his-luck veteran who hadn't been reported missing for several days, until the barber he visited twice a week became concerned at his extended absence, and his ex-wife complained that he hadn't given her this month's child-support. His body had been discovered by Highway Patrol at an abandoned gas station outside of town.

The second victim was Tyrone Jones, 26 years of age. Six feet four inches, 260 pounds of muscle tone and bulging pectorals. He was an ER nurse at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. Scott had seen him around a few times, but had never gotten acquainted with the guy. He had been found outside the Blue Oyster Bar downtown.

The third victim: Garrett Bachman, 35. He owned the comic book store downtown that Stiles and Scott had frequently visited when they were kids. He had been loud and friendly, always eager to debate theories with Stiles. He preferred Marvel comics, while Stiles preferred DC Comics, but now that he was dead Stiles wouldn't hold that fact against him.

The most recent victim was Luke Perez, only 19 years of age. A recent high school graduate who was taking a year off to pursue his one true passion: cycling. A New York native, he had been in the area to do some camping and mountain biking. His butchered body had been found early that morning by a hiker – probably the young man they had seen outside.

The one thing the victims all had in common, tying their murders together into a serial: puncture wounds in their throats from which they had been bled dry.

"Do you know _how much blood_ is in the human body?" Sheriff Stilinski asked, unable to keep the revulsion from his face.

"On average, probably about 5 1/2 litres, give or take," Scott guessed.

Father and son stared at Scott. "I, uh, wasn't actually looking for an answer."

"How do you even _know_ that?" Stiles asked.

"I read."

Stiles rolled his eyes, and then lifted the coroner's photographs for closer inspection. Washed free of blood and gore, Stiles was able to discern the puncture wounds on the victims' necks. "Are those _bite marks_?" he questioned, handing the pictures to Scott.

"That's what they look like to me," Stilinski admitted. He refilled his mug a third time, drained it, and slammed it down on the table behind him. He approached his desk, and picked up a photo of Perez, his face softening in sadness. "This boy's parents are outside right now. I don't know what to tell them. The attacks are too organized, too cleanly executed, the MO too specific to be called animal attacks. But they're just too gruesome to be called human." The sheriff's demeanor hardened again, regaining his cool professionalism. A man who pretends to have seen everything, even if he hasn't; a man acquainted with late-nights and horror; a man who can handle anything that comes his way, because there's no other alternative but to get the job done. "These attacks may look random, but my instinct tells me they're not. There's a link here somewhere. I just have to find it. Do you guys know anything? What could have done this?"

"You think a werewolf is responsible for this?" Scott demanded, hearing the implication in the sheriff's questions.

The sheriff held up his right hand, that one gesture somehow calming. Steady. "I'm not claiming anything. You guys know more about this stuff than I do. I'm just saying this serial killer doesn't seem _human_ to me."

Sheriff Stilinski was holding it together well, handling the whole situation collectedly and rationally, despite the circumstances. But Stiles knew how much it bothered his father, since he had first learned of the existence of supernatural creatures, that there were beings and forces he couldn't understand or stop. Stiles knew how powerless it made him feel, how lost and helpless.

The sheriff checked his wrist watch. "You boys better get going. I have a meeting with a couple federal agents; they should be arriving any minute, and I'd rather you two were gone when they got here."

"The feds are already on this?" Stiles asked. "That was quick, even for them."

Stilinski shrugged and ushered them out of his office. "Don't worry, Sheriff Stilinski," Scott said. "We'll figure this out." The older man nodded. He had insurmountable faith in the abilities of his son and his friends.

As Stiles stepped over the threshold, his father suddenly grabbed his bicep, holding him back. Stiles looked at him and was surprised to see cracks in his father's sheriff mask, concern and apprehension leaking through his composure. "Stiles, please, be careful."

It pained Stiles to be reminded how much his father worried about him. "I will, Dad." His father released him, his hand dropping limply to his side. He nodded, and smiled faintly.

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

"She's not going to like this," Scott warned. He and Stiles were racing down the street in Stiles' Jeep, headed for Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital.

"All we need is a quick peek. We can't begin to figure out what we're dealing with until we see the damage for ourselves."

"Fine," Scott conceded. "But we need to make a stop first."

Melissa McCall sat behind the nurses' desk on the main floor, recording logistics from patients' charts into the computer system. Her face lit up when she saw her son walking down the corridor, holding a large Peet's coffee in his hand. She smiled, accepted the offering, and took a long sip. "Mmm. French roast." Scott smirked at Stiles: _We're in._ "Okay, what do you guys want?

"Can't we just come by and visit our favorite nurse?"

Melissa's left eyebrow lifted doubtfully; a gesture Scott had inherited, and Stiles had witnessed far too many times from the pair of them. _Really?_ That eyebrow asked. _That's the best you can come up with?_ "Don't take this the wrong way, boys, but you either tell me why you're here or you can make sure the door doesn't hit you on the way out."

Stiles motioned for Scott to take the lead. Scott began tentatively, "Mom, it's not that we didn't come by to see you – even though we know how busy you are and everything – but we've just come from the Sheriff's Station and –"

"We want to see Luke Perez's body!" Melissa's brow wrinkled and she frowned. Scott glared at Stiles. "What? You were taking too long."

After a brief silence, Melissa inquired, "Why do you want to see him?"

"-and the other victims with the same wounds," Stiles interjected, "if they're still in the morgue."

"But why-?"

"Please, Mom. We wouldn't ask unless it was important. Trust us."

She did trust them. Trusted that if Scott said it was important, it definitely was. Trusted that if Scott and Stiles were involved, trouble was sure to follow – supernatural trouble.

Melissa nodded. She led them to a bank of elevators to the right and pressed the basement button. The elevator lurched and descended slowly. Tinny muzak floated from the speakers. Were those jingling melodies supposed to be soothing?

Three years ago Melissa would _never_ have agreed to show Stiles and Scott the morgue. Would never have risked her job, her reputation, her sole source of income by revealing classified information to two teenage boys. Would never have showed dead bodies to her son and his best friend (no, she definitely would _never_ have done that). But three years ago, her son wasn't a werewolf. Three years ago she would have scoffed at the mention of monsters and ghost stories. Three years ago she didn't have any paranormal experiences, didn't fear every full moon and bump in the night, didn't worry that maybe the next guy she dated could turn out to be a were-anything. Three years ago the two boys she loved more than anyone in the world weren't stumbling onto dead people in the woods, nearly becoming corpses themselves. In comparison, letting them see a couple stiffs in the morgue, cleaned and neatly identified, was a walk in the park.

In three years, her priorities had changed. Some things, she realized, were more important than her job, her career, her over-protective bubble she had tried to place around Scott. Saving lives from being destroyed was one of them. She assured herself that showing the boys Perez's body was the right thing to do. _They'll figure it out._ At least, that was what she told herself in justification.

The morgue was labelled with a stiff white placard written in bold Arial font. Heavy steel doors swung inward, revealing a cold, sterile, silent blue-walled tomb. One wall was dominated by large metal drawers like grotesque, over-sized filing cabinets; these cabinets were informally referred to as 'refrigerators,' a term Stiles never wanted to associate with cold corpses. "Perez and Lewis are the only two left," Melissa said. "Jones was cremated last week, and Bachman was released to his family a couple days ago." She showed them Lewis first, pulling out the bottom-most drawer.

Laid out inside, a toe-tag – like a thrift store price-tag marked down, begging for someone to take him home – attached to his left foot, Lewis resembled a waxen figure prepared for a museum exhibit. He was a thin man, tall, with a glorious full beard – thick but neatly groomed, the color of North Dakota wheat fields. Even in death he was a handsome man.

Melissa indicated a few jagged scars, the skin pink and thin, where Lewis had been injured while serving in Afghanistan. "But I think what you're interested in are these marks here." She took the lifeless head gingerly between her hands, careful and gentle as though trying not to wake him from slumber, and turned it, exposing two very clear and distinct holes on the side of his neck.

Stiles reached out his hand, recoiled, took a deep breath to strengthen his resolve, and traced the wounds with his fingers, testing their depth and width for himself. Melissa's nose wrinkled.

"What could make wounds like that, Mom?" Scott asked, silently hoping she would offer a rational explanation involving medical equipment or power tools. An explanation that didn't involve werewolves.

"I don't know," Melissa admitted. "The holes are perfectly symmetrical and an equal distance apart. The size, depth, width, and shape never varies in any of the victims – no matter where else the marks appear."

"They're in other places?" Scott asked. He hadn't actually read the details of the police reports, and Stiles was busy, leaning over the corpse for a closer inspection of the wounds.

Melissa nodded. "Yes, and accompanied by other injuries. Lewis sustained a broken wrist, a couple broken ribs, a hairline fracture along his left ulna, and the bruising you see. These strange marks appear only on his neck. Jones had a clavicle fracture, probably caused by a fall, as well as some bruising and torn cartridge in his ribs, and a sprained ankle. He had those marks in his throat and upper thigh. Bachman had fewer external injuries, but had these incisions in his throat and cubital fossa," Melissa pointed to the inner crook of her elbow, "where your brachial artery is located. Actually, all these lacerations hit major arteries."

"What about Perez?"

Melissa grimaced, shut Lewis in the refrigerator, and opened a second drawer, exposing Perez from the chest up. He was a handsome kid, with exquisite features, smooth skin, and a full head of luscious ebony hair. Even with the kaleidoscopic bruises flowering the entire left side of his face, they could perceive his youthful beauty – like a Hispanic Dorian Gray.

"Mom?" Scott asked, because she hadn't answered his question.

It was Stiles who answered. "Aside from several broken ribs, he had a broken femur, a ruptured kidney, and a shattered pelvis. He had puncture wounds on his throat, wrist, and lower abdomen. He was in worse shape than any of the others."

"That's why I'm not showing you anything below his diaphragm. The damage to his internal organs alone was unbelievable. It takes a lot of force to cause these kind of injuries – especially to break the femur." Melissa looked at the dead boy a moment longer, her eyes wet and doleful. Her fingers hovered over his forehead, as she resisted the urge to brush the hair back from his face. She muttered to herself, "The poor child. His poor mother."

Melissa recognized her momentary lapse of composure, and quickly snapped the drawer shut, almost catching Stiles' fingers. "Discover anything useful?"

"I'm not sure yet," Stiles mumbled, cradling his nearly severed fingers in his hand. The wheels in his head were turning.

"I hope you guys figure it out." Melissa led them back upstairs; the same irritating muzak droning from the speakers. When she was back at her station, she resumed her work seamlessly. "Scott, it's getting late. I imagine you have a pile of homework you haven't started yet. Go straight home and do it."

"Okay."

Scott and Stiles headed towards the main entrance, the automatic doors swooshing open before them. A technology-induced _Open Sesame._ The cool night air blasted in at them. Scott hesitated a moment, glancing back over his shoulder. His mother sat motionless, her eyes wet again as they gazed down at the tepid remains of her coffee, her fingers resting lightly on its lid.

Scott returned to the desk, stepping around the Staff Only barrier, despite clear signage banning non-personnel. "Mom?"

"Scott, what are you-?"

Scott stooped down and grabbed his mother in a hug, crushing her against him, her head buried in his chest. The way she used to hold him when he was younger – and smaller. He kissed the crown of her pomegranate-shampoo-scented head. "I love you."

"I love you too." He released her and they shared a tender smile. As he rejoined Stiles, she yelled after him, "Make sure you do _all_ your homework!"


	3. Chapter 3: Blood Suckers

**Chapter Three: Blood Suckers**

"You know what we're dealing with here, don't you?" Stiles asked as they climbed into his Jeep. Scott gave him a vacant stare and shrugged. Stiles released an exasperated moan and thew up his hands – an _I'm-surrounded-by-idiots_ gesture that would have offended Scott had it come from anyone other than his best friend. "Vampires!"

Scott snorted. "Yeah, _right."_

"What?"

"You really think _vampires_ are to blame? Don't you think that sounds a little too _Twilight_?"

"Are you kidding me?" Stiles shoved the key in the ignition with more emphasis than necessary, and reversed out of his parking space. "After everything we've seen, everything we've fought, you're having a hard time believing in vampires? _You're a friggin' werewolf_!"

Scott shrugged again. "Yeah, but werewolves are the norm now. At this point, vampires would almost seem kind of ordinary, especially after Japanese demons. Maybe even a little cliche, you know?"

"Try telling that to Perez," Stiles muttered.

"I'm just saying, vampires sound a little ridiculous."

"Think about it." Stiles ticked the facts off on his fingers. "Bite marks. Victims bled dry. An attacker with superhuman strength who was able to take down an athlete, a muscled giant, and a soldier trained in combat. What else could it be?"

"I don't think we should rule out werewolves."

Stiles disagreed. "Nah, I think the wounds are too clean and precise. A new werewolf couldn't control themselves like that, and the next full moon isn't for another week."

Scott's forehead crinkled in concentration. "What about an Alpha, or an Omega?"

"Still not the right MO. What would a werewolf do with that much blood? Vampire, definitely."

Scott laughed. "You read too much fanfiction."

"Yeah, well, that's probably true, but that's the best explanation we've come up with so far."

The duo spent the remainder of their drive to Scott's house proposing theories, until the gravity of the situation was forgotten and they were trying to invent the most ridiculous ideas possible. Their favorites were: aliens from Mars, who used human blood to sustain the red color of their planet; Madonna bathing in it to stay forever young; a vengeful six-foot were-chicken, the product of a KFC order gone wrong.

Stiles was laughing so hard he thought his guts would explode. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed. When he braked in front of the McCall residence, they were still chuckling, and Stiles felt a sting of regret that the day was ending. It felt good to joke around with his best friend.

There was an awkward lull as they came back to reality. "Thanks for the drive," Scott acknowledged. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Anytime, bro."

They fist-bumped in the dark, and Scott stepped out, backpack in tow. Stiles waited until Scott had safely entered his house and closed the door before pulling away from the curb. Suddenly finding himself alone, his mind returned to vampires. He couldn't seem to shake the notion, despite Scott's skepticism. His instincts told him he was right, even if he couldn't prove it yet.

When he arrived home, Stiles found the house dark and empty, concealed in the shadows creeping along the backyard. The street lamp cast its limited radius of light just short of the front door. The blue Jeep was the only vehicle in the driveway. Another late night of work for Sheriff Stilinski. It wasn't unusual for him to be gone until well after midnight when he was in the middle of an important case.

Stiles unlocked the door, grabbed a Pepsi from the fridge, and headed up to his bedroom, turning on lights as he went, so his father wouldn't be welcomed by a dark house. He tossed his book-bag onto his bed and turned on his laptop. He sat down at his desk and took a swig from his can. "Let's do this." He flexed his fingers over the keyboard, the cursor blinking readily in the Google search engine. It was dangerous, he knew, to delve into the endless cosmos of the Internet. Once he started, there would be no turning back. But he needed more information and this was his best source.

Stiles steeled himself, typed 'vampire," and hit enter.

Almost thirty million results in just 0.63 seconds. There were movies, television shows, comic books, video games, and literature; texts dating back six thousand years ago. There were specialized dating sites and forums – an entire world he hadn't realized existed. There were science articles about 'Real vampires,' chronicling an actual nocturnal condition present in some humans. These 'Real vampires' were not the kind of _real_ he needed; real for him being more along the lines of folklore and legend. He read about Romanian Prince Vlad Tepeds – aka Vlad the Impaler, Dracula-inspiration – about the Greek Vrykolakas (trouble-making vampires who crushed their victims while they were cozily tucked into their little beds), and about the Slavic Upior – vampires with barbed tongues and an unquenchable thirst for blood. Blood they not only drank but slept and bathed in. A Upior could be killed by staking or beheading; a corpse prevented from rising as a vampire by burying it face-down.

Stiles read pieces on Countess Elizabeth Bathory, whose sadism and torture of thousands of young women, her attempts to stay youthful by drinking and bathing in their blood, disturbed him so much he considered quitting and had to take a fifteen minute bathroom break. There were several examples of sadistic humans like Bathory, whose 'vampirism' emerged from their twisted minds. They were monstrous and evil but still, by definition, _human._

While the list of characteristics, origins, abilities, and methods of extermination was long and varied, Stiles noted most sites seemed to agree on a few basic principles: one vampire could create more; vampires were strong, fast, and smart; they possessed heightened senses and healing capabilities (reminding him of his friendly neighborhood werewolves); and, when in doubt, impaling and decapitation never failed.

Stiles still had a lot of questions. He wasn't sure if a vampire's aversions to holy water, garlic, silver, mirrors, and sunlight were strong enough to repel it. He didn't know if all vampires could shape-shift – not just into bats, but even wolves, like Dracula did – and fly; if they could read thoughts and move objects with their minds. He was unclear as to a vampire's physical appearance – whether they were more attractive versions of their human selves or whether they all looked like the Master from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ or Barlow from _Salem's Lot_.

In fact, after two and a half hours of dedicated Internet surfing, Stiles was no closer to the truth. He understood even less about vampires than he had when he started. Until he had more evidence of what they were dealing with, he wouldn't be able to decide if it was a vampire or not. When dealing with mythological creatures, the only true teacher of fact and fiction was experience. Unfortunately, this meant waiting around for more attacks, for more people to be killed. How long could they afford to let the bodies continue piling up? There was just too much uncertainty.

However, of one thing Stiles was positive: vampires craved blood and suffering above all else. Lots and lots of it.

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

Stiles got distracted watching episodes of _Buffy_. When the front door was unlocked at forty minutes past eleven, he still hadn't started his homework. He could hear his father in the kitchen, opening the fridge, running a load through the dishwasher. He could visualize his father removing his jacket and boots, storing them in the hall closet along with his gun holster. He listened as his father slowly ascended the stairs – thirteen in total – and paused outside Stiles' bedroom door. Stiles closed his laptop lid and waited. Finally his father knocked lightly. "Stiles, are you awake?"

"Yeah, Dad."

His father's figure occupied most of the door frame, his broad shoulders slightly slouched. The hall light silhouetted him, preventing Stiles from clearly seeing his face. Sheriff Stilinski shifted his weight awkwardly, scratched his head, and moved to Stiles' bed. The mattress springs groaned in protest as he lowered himself onto it.

Stiles expected questions about his homework and admonishments for staying up late. He was crafting excuses as to why he hadn't finished yet, why he was sitting in front of his laptop with a half-eaten tub of cookie dough ice-cream, when he turned on the desk lamp. The room flooded with dusty light. Sheriff Stilinski appeared grey and haggard, rings black as eggplants under his troubled sea-foam eyes. His lips and brows drooped in an endless frown.

It frightened Stiles to see his father so exhausted and beaten down. He knew the sheriff hadn't come in just to say 'I love you' and 'good night.' The sheriff didn't have any energy left to fake assurance. "Dad, what is it? What's wrong?"

John exhaled. "I don't know how to say this, son..."

Stiles' heart constricted in panic. Nothing good could ever follow that sentence. "It's not your job is it? I hope you didn't get in trouble because I stopped in today."

"No, my job's still there."

"And my friends, everyone's okay?"

"They're fine."

"Then what-?"

Sheriff Stilinski held up his hand for silence, signifying he would tell Stiles what was wrong if the teenager would just shut up and let him get a word in edgewise. He patted the space beside him, and Stiles sat where he indicated. The sheriff sighed – the kind of sigh that belongs only to a man who carries the world on his shoulders; who sometimes holds on too tightly, terrified he'll lose what he loves most.

He put an arm around his son's shoulders and drew him closer. He could hear Stiles' heart thundering within his chest, its beat matching his own. When he finally spoke, it was with difficulty. "I met with those two federal agents this afternoon. They weren't here about the recent murders – at least, not directly. They're trailing another killer." The sheriff would rather have slit his own wrists than have uttered these words: "Stiles, Marshall Landry escaped from prison."


	4. Chapter 4: Prison Break

**Welcome back to a couple familiar faces =)  
Thanks for reading. Don't forget to leave a review!**

* * *

 **Chapter Four: Prison Break**

The next day was a Friday. When Stiles' alarm bellowed at 7:00am, he was already wide awake. Had been awake for a few hours, lying in bed watching the sun rise through the cracks in his curtains. What little sleep he had gotten had been marred by grisly and graphic nightmares that woke him up screaming, his body covered in perspiration, heart hammering in his chest. Dreams made more terrifying because they weren't just figments of his imagination. They were memories.

Sheriff Stilinksi was already freshly shaved and dressed when he poked his head into Stiles' room. He looked like he had slept about as well as Stiles had. "I'm up," Stiles grumbled, throwing back his sweat-soaked sheets and swinging his legs out of bed, the floor cool against his sticky feet.

"I've got breakfast made for you."

Stiles stumbled down the stairs in his pajamas. He grabbed a seat at the dining table, his long legs stretched lazily under it. His father placed utensils and a plate in front of him, stacked high with warm, fluffy, golden pancakes. Stiles seized his fork and shoveled food into his mouth. Usually weekday breakfasts consisted of soggy cereal or a couple slices of toast. Sometimes leftover pizza and Chinese if the sheriff had left for work already.

The pancakes were delicious – perfect in shape, thickness, and consistency; the one delicacy his father _could_ cook, flawless every time. But as he devoured each divine morsel, an uneasiness settled in the pit of Stiles' stomach. He appreciated the gesture, but knew that if his father had time to be up, dressed, and preparing breakfast _before_ work, he must have been up even earlier than his usual ungodly hour of 6am. "How long have you been up?"

The sheriff was guzzling a mug of coffee. Stiles wondered how many cups he'd already had, and if it was healthy for him to consume so much caffeine. "I'm not sure. Probably about 4am." That explained the hearty and nutritional breakfast. "I'll wager you didn't sleep much either."

"Yeah," Stiles managed to affirm through a mouth stuffed with batter.

Sheriff Stilinski rinsed out his mug under the kitchen facet and placed it in the dish-rack. "Stiles, I'm going to call the school and ask them to excuse you this afternoon. At noon, I want you to come down to the station. There are a couple feds who want to talk to you, and you can ask them any questions you might have. Is that alright?"

"Sure." Stiles nodded. The situation must be bad if his father was asking him to miss school.

"Okay." Sheriff Stilinski donned his jacket and buckled his gun holster. He grabbed his keys off the counter in one fluid motion. "Have a good day. I'll see you later at-"

"Noon. Gotcha."

"Good." John lingered a moment and bent his head to kiss his son's forehead. His lips were moist and warm against Stiles' skin; his breath reeked of coffee. "Be careful. I love you."

"Love ya too, Dad."

The sheriff left for work, his engine rumbling noisily as the car clambered down the street. Stiles stared at his half-eaten breakfast. The house suddenly plunged into silence, he felt empty and alone. He scraped his plate into the garbage. He didn't feel hungry anymore.

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

"Dude, what's going on? I haven't seen you all morning. Have you been avoiding me?" Scott asked, cornering Stiles. He had been trying to talk to his best friend all morning, but had found it nearly impossible. Whenever he got close, Stiles would duck into the bathroom or a classroom, stay behind after class to talk to teachers. He had finally caught up with Stiles in front of his locker after the lunch bell rang – and only because he had made an excuse to get out of class ten minutes early, so he could be there waiting.

"What gave you that impression?"

"Are you kidding?" Stiles didn't answer, concentrating on opening his locker. Instead of starting an argument, Scott decided to let the matter drop, and trust that Stiles would clue him in later. "Nevermind. Let's just go to the cafeteria and get some lunch. I'm starving."

"I can't."

"What? Why not?"

"I'm leaving." Stiles dug an apple out from behind a gym shirt and bit into it.

"You're skipping?"

"No. My dad's pulling me out early."

"Why?"

Stiles slammed his locker shut. "He just is, okay?" The annoying thing about having a werewolf as a best friend: he couldn't lie to him. Not because he had any qualms about doing so, but because Scott's new abilities allowed him to sense a lie. Evading telling the truth was just easier.

"Jeez, Sty, I was just asking." Scott pouted with his big puppy-dog eyes.

Stiles sighed. Why did he feel like lately all he did was hurt the people who cared about him? "It's complicated. I'll explain later, okay?"

"You better," Scott grumbled, then broke into a smile. He punched his best friend's arm playfully. He never could manage to stay angry with Stiles for long. "Have you given any more thought to what we're dealing with?"

"Yes.

"And?"

"Definitely vampires."

Scott groaned. "Are you going with that?"

"Yeah, because I'm right. Look, I've got to go, but we should meet up after school. I want to take a look at those crime-scenes for ourselves, see if that super-sniffer of yours can pick up anything."

"Okay. Text me when you're ready."

They fist-bumped in parting. "Later."

Stiles jacked up the Jeep's radio, and tried to distract himself, to turn off his brain, as he sped to the Sheriff's Station. His seat shook each time he hit a pothole or the bass dropped. He tried not to think about Marshall and his cobalt blue eyes; about his smug smile and genial voice; about his long tapering fingers caressing Stiles' face and abdomen, the handle of his gun. He tried not to think about the bullet aimed for his father, how narrowly it had missed its target; each taunt calculated to cause the most damage. He tried not to think about duct tape and red Fords.

Of course in the very act of trying _not_ to think of those things, they were all he could think of. Like when someone tells you not to think about pink elephants and that's immediately what you do. Pink elephants of all shapes and sizes parading around – like that odd drunken scene in _Dumbo._ (He didn't want to think about _Dumbo_ either; that movie depressed him, and always made him lonesome for his own late mother.)

Stiles wasn't sure what he expected to find at the station: blacks SUVS swarming the parking lot carrying mysterious men in matching black suits and sunglasses; surveillance equipment and unmarked vans – the creepy kind he instinctively avoided walking around alone; huge detailed maps of California with little red pins representing last known sightings; a toll-free information hotline, answered by pretty female agents with colorful cardigans and thick-rimmed glasses.

Instead, when he stepped into the station, it was oddly quiet. His father greeted him at the door, and led him into his office with a firm hand on his back. All the blinds were closed, blocking out sunlight and prying eyes. Two federal agents perched on a worn leather sofa. A man and a woman. They stood as he entered.

"Stiles, you remember Agents Pierce and Santiago." His father didn't phrase it as a question - because it wasn't possible for him to forget. They looked exactly as he remembered from their one meeting two years ago. Jason Pierce was a tall, clean-shaven man in a dark suit. He stood straight and proud, immaculate posture. His thin lips were pulled into a tight line, suggesting he hardly ever smiled. Had probably forgotten how. All work and no play. A television stereotype if Stiles had ever seen one. Pierce gave Stiles a quick nod and stiff handshake.

Agent Santiago wrapped Stiles in a hug. "Look how you've grown," she smiled, and took a step back so she could admire his height and more-defined facial features. She spoke to him like an old family aunt who hardly had the chance to visit. He half-expected her to pinch his cheeks.

Her raven hair was styled in a high ponytail, and her lipsticked smile was wide and friendly, reaching all the way to her luminescent eyes. The crows' feet in the corners and the strands of grey scattered throughout her hair were new, but she was every bit as beautiful as Stiles remembered. Her speech just as gentle and kind. The advice she had given him etched in his memory. The way she looked at him now, he could see himself reflected in her eyes, could see himself how she saw him: a fighter, strong and determined; a survivor worthy of love.

He adored her immediately, feeling confident that such a lovely maternal woman could never be the bearer of terrible news. He smiled. "It's good to see you again, Agent Santiago."

"Please, call me Elana. I just wish we were reunited under better circumstances. How have you been holding up? Your father tells me you're quite the lacrosse star. He's very proud of you."

"Is he now?" Stiles stole a glance at his father, but the sheriff pretended to be absorbed in rearranging his stapler.

"He also says you're an expert problem-solver, an intelligent young man with a lot of potential. He told us you have a great group of friends too, and you all take care of each other. Committed friendships are so important, especially at your age. You need those kind of people-"

Pierce cleared his throat.

"Listen to me going on." Santiago's smile slipped slightly, but she quickly caught it. "I'm just so pleased to see you doing well. The boy who lived."

"But, unfortunately," Pierce interrupted, "we're here on official business and to bring you some unpleasant news." He indicated for Stiles to sit on the couch, but the teen leaned back against his father's desk instead. "Marshall Landry escaped police custody during transportation. He was being transferred to a different maximum security prison after a judge ruled in favor of the death penalty. Landry killed a nurse at the institution – a woman with whom he had been spending a great deal of time in the preceding months."

"How did he escape?" Stiles asked. His father had already heard the story, and had related bits and pieces to him the night before, but he wanted to hear it straight from the mouths of Washington. He wanted to hear Pierce own up to their mistakes.

"He attacked and killed two guards and the driver. He appears to have escaped on foot. We're still investigating the incident. But," Pierce eyed him critically, "it wasn't an inside job, if that's what you're thinking."

"It was rather sudden and violent, I'm afraid," Santiago offered. "Very bloody. Impulsive."

"Yes." Pierce cleared his throat again.

Stiles had a million questions: how had Marshall killed two armed guards? How far would he have been able to travel on foot? Why had a judge saved the death penalty until now and yet deemed two consecutive life sentences appropriate punishment enough for Marshall's other numerous and disturbing crimes? How could Pierce stand before him and recite these facts in such a robotic manner, knowing what Marshall had almost done to Stiles? Were they contacting the families of the other victims? He somehow doubted Pierce and Santiago were visiting each of them in person. Finally Stiles asked the question bothering him most: "What are you doing here in Beacon Hills? Do you think Marshall could be connected to the recent murders?"

"As of right now, Landry and the murders are considered separate and isolated cases. We have no evidence to link the two. Not only do these killings not follow Marshall's typical MO, but," Pierce loosened his tie and cleared his throat again; Stiles considered offering the guy a cough drop, "three of the four victims aren't his type."

"Meaning?"

"They were too old." Stiles felt his father stiffen beside him, and a shiver crawled down his own spine.

"Why are you here then?"

"Our main priority is finding Marshall Landry. If the FBI decides to take over the murder cases, they'll send in other agents."

"That doesn't answer my question. Why are you _here_? Why do you think he'll come to Beacon Hills?"

Santiago decided to answer that one. She took one of Stiles' hands in her own and said gently, "We think there's a good chance he'll come after you."

Though Stiles had suspected as much, his pupils dilated and his breathing hitched. He looked at his father, whose panic-stricken frown seemed to mirror his own expression. "W-why? Why would he do that?"

"Because you _survived,_ Stiles. You and your father beat him at his own game."

"And he doesn't like to be beaten," Pierce chimed in. "Landry craves power, control, and mastery. It's what, to use a lewd phrase, 'gets him off.' It's all about dominance. You didn't give that to him. You interrupted his game, left things unfinished. Presented him with a personal challenge. You're the one that got away. He'll be back for you."

Stiles could feel a panic attack blooming in his chest. He tried to hold it together. He didn't want to break down in front of the agents, didn't want them to see how terrified he was. Didn't want to add to his father's already suffocating worry. He kept his voice even as he asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"We want you to enter protective custody. We'll take you away from here, keep you safe."

"You want me run away and hide?"

"No, Stiles, no," Santiago assuaged. "It's not like that. Landry is a dangerous man, and we just want to keep you safe."

"What about my friends? School? My jeep?"

"You'd have to leave everything behind; you couldn't tell anyone where you're going either."

"Dad?" Stiles asked, turning to his father for guidance. Sheriff Stilinski opened his mouth to respond, but Pierce interrupted.

"Your father would be staying here, where he's needed." _Tell your daddy you don't need him anymore._

 _But I do need him,_ Stiles thought. Needed him more than the people of Beacon Hills did. This final comment decided the matter for him. "No," Stiles refused. "I won't do it. I'm not going."

"We can protect you."

"By keeping me locked up somewhere?"

"The government is equipped-"

"No," Stiles was adamant. "I'm not going." This was his decision to make.

"Please," Sheriff Stilinski pleaded. The desperation in his voice almost broken Stiles' resolve. "Please, son. They can keep you safe. Protect you in ways I can't. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."

"I can't, Dad. It's running away. And I'm not going to run away from anything ever again."

"Stiles, reconsider-"

"There's no point."

"You're being foolish," Pierce snapped. The first real sign of emotion he had showed. "This man will _kill_ you. He'll have you _begging_ for death. You belong in protective custody."

"If you want me to leave Beacon Hills, you'll have to kidnap me. Because I won't be going with you any other way."

"Stop being a stubborn child!" Pierce angrily retorted. "This isn't one of your little lacrosse games. If you don't come with us, you're as good as dead! _Think of your father_!"

"I am!" Stiles yelled back. "I am thinking of him. I'm not going to leave him behind, and I'm not going to run from Marshall. Once I start running, I'll never stop. I'll be running the rest of my life, always looking over my shoulder."

"You're not safe here. He _will_ find you."

"If I'm not safe in Beacon Hills, I'm not safe anywhere." Stiles looked meaningfully at his father. The sheriff nodded in agreement. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I promised to meet my friend Scott." Stiles turned to leave.

"Just give it some thought, Stiles, before giving us your final answer." Santiago grabbed his arm, appealing to him sadly. "Sleep on it."

"I'm not going to change my mind."

"You're making a mistake!" Pierce declared, red-faced. Clearly this was not how he had imagined this conversation going. Stiles pitied the man's ignorance and limited worldview, his belief that a gun and badge could solve any problem.

"I'm not." If werewolves couldn't protect him from Marshall, than the FBI certainly couldn't. "But I'll take that chance." Stiles paused a moment at the door. He looked at Pierce. "By the way, how did Marshall kill that nurse?"

"Decapitated her with a blunt instrument. Then he put her head on a spike and set her on fire." Stiles' stomach churned. "Still think you're making the right choice?"

"Yes, I do. I just think you guys are going to have to work harder."


	5. Chapter 5: Vampire Kiss

**Chapter Five: Vampire Kiss**

"We should call Lydia," Scott suggested, as they raced down the deserted highway. "Maybe she'll be able to sense something I can't. Maybe she'll even be able to tell us what this thing is, or who its next victim will be."

"No."

"Why not?"

"She's been through enough lately. I don't want to drag her into this." Stiles was resolute on the point. He would not involve Lydia in the matter. Bringing her to the crime-scenes would only bring her pain; she would hear them: the killers' victims. Their voices from beyond the grave, their screams, their agony. Her own personal broadcast of the dead, channelled directly into her head. No one able to hear but her.

A few weeks ago, Stiles might have agreed to bring Lydia in, might have suggested the idea himself. But he felt he understood her better now, understood how it felt to hear voices no one else could, voices he didn't want to hear, voices he wished would just shut up and leave him alone. He regretted having pushed her to use her gift before, not recognizing how much of a curse it was – a physical, mental, and emotional burden she was unable to share.

"Alright. Where to first?"

"I figure we should visit the sites in order: Lewis, Jones, Bachman, Perez. Maybe there's some kind of escalating pattern or something."

They started with the first crime-scene: an abandoned diesel gas station just outside of town. An old, faded wooden sign boasting "Full Serve" squeaked on rusty hinges. The unsecured screen door banged in the breeze. The windows were covered in grime, making it difficult to see the dust-coated shelves and counters within. It was the perfect location to film a B-horror movie about cannibalistic hillbillies or swamp creatures. There was a coppery stain on the front porch leading into the store, and another near the pumps. "Blood," Scott confirmed, though Stiles could have figured that much out for himself.

They spent forty-five minutes searching for clues, Scott employing the use of his canine super-sniffer to search for anything the police might have missed. Mostly all he could smell was the dried blood and traces of alcohol – dulled from the passage of time – and a new scent, oddly foreign yet somehow familiar. He knew he had never smelled anything like it before, but had the strangest feeling that he knew exactly what it was, and should be able to place it, its origin just out of reach. The aroma was bizarre in another sense: it agitated Scott. Like some kind of anger-inducing pheromone that challenged his Alpha sensibilities; a threat to his territory.

"It's the grossest think I've ever smelled," Scott complained. "And I can smell _every_ scent that's ever existed in the boys' lockeroom."

"Ew. That's an image I didn't need."

"What would Jack Lewis be doing out here?"

"I don't know, but just cause he was found here doesn't mean he initially met his attacker here – or that he came willingly. This is where he was killed, and the body wasn't moved, but he could have started out anywhere. Vampires can be very persuasive."

Scott rolled his eyes.

"Anyway," Stiles kicked at the loose dirt. "Let's get going. There's nothing here."

The next place on their list was the Blue Oyster Bar downtown. Luckily, the place didn't open for another couple hours, so they had plenty of time to snoop around without fear of getting caught. "Tyrone Jones was found here." Stiles indicated a spot partially hidden by a massive green dumpster, recalling details of the police reports from memory. "That's only ten feet from the back exit. A bartender said he heard screaming, but by the time he and a security guard got out here, the attacker had disappeared and Jones was beyond help. A witness said he remembered seeing Tyrone and another man heading out back, but he couldn't provide a good description." Stiles glanced around the back alley. "The security guard and some other patrons searched everywhere for the attacker, but couldn't find any trace of the guy. Not a tire tread or a footprint. Nothing. He'd have to be fast to have gotten away that quickly. _Supernaturally_ fast."

"Maybe." Scott's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"What's wrong?"

"It's stronger here. That smell. And the blood."

"Probably because it's fresher. Let's look for clues, and then we can go." Their search was futile, yielding no additional evidence than what the police had already discovered. Another dead-end it seemed, bringing them no closer to the truth. Stiles was beginning to get discouraged, but he didn't let on. "Maybe something will turn up at the next place," he said hopefully. Scott merely grunted his irritation.

Their next destination was several blocks over: Captain Bach's Comics and Collectibles, Bachman's comic book store. The yellow police tape still hung in places, the store largely undisturbed, the CLOSED sign hanging lop-sided in the window strangely ominous. Among the comics and six-foot cutouts, the action figures, t-shirts, memorabilia, and espresso machine shoved into a corner along with a couple overstuffed couches, there existed an almost reverential silence. Stiles felt he was trespassing inside a sacred shrine, as he picked the lock on the door and got them inside.

Stiles gazed over everything sadly, running his fingers over glossy pages and molded plastic. "Seems like forever since we were last in here."

"Not since the summer before freshman year."

Stiles picked up a current Batman issue and flipped through. "Why did we ever stop coming?"

"We just grew up, I guess."

Stiles shook his head. If this was growing up, he'd rather remain a child forever. "Remember how Garrett would bring his mother's homemade cookies on Fridays, and he'd let us hang around for hours, even if we didn't buy anything? We'd just hang out reading comics, and he was always talking. He liked the company I think. Liked to be around people interested in the same things he was. That's probably why the business never did well financially. He was a poor businessman, but he was a good guy. A really good guy."

"Yeah, he was."

"He didn't deserve to go the way he did." Stiles drew a shaky breath. "We need to catch this sucker."

"We will."

Stiles and Scott sleuthed around the store. The same odor pervading the other crime scenes was even stronger here, proving Stiles' theory that it increased in intensity the fresher it was. Scott's eyes flashed red as he explained, "Something about it just makes me so _angry._ " His fist closed around a Superman figurine, and he crushed it within his fingers.

"Woah. Okay. Let's get you out of here."

The sun was starting to set in a jam-colored sky punctuated by marmalade rays and grapefruit clouds, as Stiles parked the Jeep at the entrance to their final destination: Redwood State Park and Camping Grounds. Perez had been found at the edge of his campsite, three miles into the park. Stiles and Scott picked their way along a trail, doing their best to navigate in the decreasing light. The grounds were pretty much empty, after the most recent murder, only the most die-hard campers sticking it out.

Scott's nose was better than a compass, and he soon guided them to the site. Yellow police tape fluttered in the evening breeze, marking off the area. Perez's tent and camping gear were set up where he had left them, waiting for him to return at any moment. Most of the blood had yet to be cleared away, spattered on rocks and trees. Even with his below-average sense of smell, Stiles was overwhelmed by the coppery stench, his stomach churning nauseatingly.

Stiles swallowed the vomit rising in his throat, and ducked under the police tape. "Coming?" he asked, noticing Scott wasn't following him. Scott paced the edge of the campsite, his eyes two shining rubies, claws extended, pointed canine ears flat against his head. "Woah. You okay?"

Scott shook his head and growled. "That smell, it makes me want to..." he viciously mimed ripping and tearing, presumably at heads.

"Okay, buddy. Calm down. Just wait here."

Stiles hurried his search, trying to be thorough as he rushed. He listened to Scott's constant stream of growls and grunts as he tried to control himself. Stiles was just about to give up, and write the evening off as a complete waste of time, when he noticed a faint glint among low-laying brambles. It was a locket. He untangled it and lifted it for closer inspection. It was cold in his palm. A golden oval pendant hanging from a matching gold chain. Three small diamonds, exquisitely cut, were nestled inside an intricate floral-design setting. Several smaller gems comprised leaves, accented by arches that resembled ribbons on a bouquet. Stiles tried to open the locket, but it wouldn't budge. He knew absolutely nothing about gems or jewelry, but he could tell it was old and probably valuable - definitely _not_ the kind of thing a cyclist would wear in the woods.

"Hey, look what I found!" Stiles held the locket up triumphantly as he rejoined Scott, the precious metal reflecting the moon's glow.

"Get that thing away from me!" Scott snarled, jumping back.

"What?"

"Put. It. Away," Scott demanded through clenched teeth, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow to stifle the smell. Stiles hastily shoved the necklace into his pants' pocket.

"Better?"

"Barely."

As they walked back to the Jeep, Scott trailed a few yards behind Stiles, uttering curses under his breath every once in a while. When they reached his vehicle, Stiles shoved the locket into a Ziploc sandwich bag – a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly still inside – and shoved it into the glove compartment, along with a pine-scented air freshener. Only when this precaution had been taken would Scott climb into the Jeep.

"What is it about that necklace that has you so strung out?" Stiles asked, shifting into Drive.

"It's not the _necklace_ itself. It's the stench all over it; what I've been smelling at the crime scenes all evening. It was more concentrated on the necklace, and also different somehow...I can't explain it." Scott didn't possess the necessary vocabulary to describe the subtle differences between scents. It was bad enough he had to smell them.

"Okay, new theory! Maybe our mystery attacker is using a herb or chemical compound that makes werewolves frenzied and ready to kill people. A hallucinogen like wolfsbane. Or a behavior-altering drug. Superman vs red kryptonite style. Just look at you! One whiff and you can barely contain yourself!"

Scott shook his head vigorously. "It's not a smell like that – a plant or chemical or whatever. It's definitely a creature; a new species I've never smelled before. It's not exactly something _alive._ It reeks of blood, death, and decay. But musky too. Kinda like a corpse that's been buried in rich soil. Yet, it's not unpleasant, at the same time. There's something alluring about it, sexual. And," Scott turned up his nose, "it _stinks_ of lust and hunger, and _arrogance_. I didn't even know arrogance had such a strong smell! Ugh, it just makes me want to-" Scott shredded an old gas receipt.

"You sound just like a canine predator facing off against a cat."

"What?"

"You know, natural enemies. Maybe this scent bothers you so much because it belongs to the sworn natural enemy of the werewolf." Stiles took his eyes from the road long enough to glance at Scott. "You know what that is, don't you?" Scott tilted his head. "C'mon. Seriously? Think legends? Think _pop-culture_? You've got nothing, really? Have you been living in a cave?" Stiles groaned in frustration. "Vampires!"

Now it was Scott's turn to groan. "Not that again."

"I don't get why you won't-"

"Hey," Scott interrupted, pointing at a shape in the distance, just out of range of Stiles' headlights. "Isn't that Danny's car?"

Sure enough, it was a 2004 black Acura TL. A Beacon Hills High School bumper sticker afixed near the left taillight. Stiles slowed and parked behind it. He glanced around at their surroundings. "What would he be doing out here?" They were directly in front of a Motel 6 – one of few buildings in the area, aside from a convenience store/gas station across the street. It wasn't exactly an area frequented by teenage boys – especially not one as worldly as Danny.

"I don't know, but let's find out." The duo disembarked from the Jeep and approached the car. It was empty. Something felt off. Stiles cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in the window. The keys were in the ignition.

A mild breeze blew from the west. Scott's nose twitched and his eyes flared. "He's here."

To their right, a bloodcurdling scream sundered the tranquil night.

"Danny!" Scott transformed and raced toward the sound. Stiles ran after him, wishing he could grab his aluminium baseball bat from the Jeep, but there wasn't enough time.

Scott reached the scene first, unleashing a menacing roar in warning. Danny was prostrate on the pavement. A man bent over him. Only Scott knew it wasn't really a man, despite his shape. The creature's back muscles tensed and it slowly raised itself, turning to face Scott. He looked human with his trendy clothing and full head of brunette hair. Blood dripped from hideous sharp fangs, his mouth and chin slick with gore. Silver eyes glowed in the darkness; two mystical fires burning triumphantly. The vampire grinned. "Well, hello there, puppy-dog."

"Scott!"

Scott charged, claws ready and teeth barred, ready to rip the laugh right from the monster's throat. He missed. The vampire jumped into the air, gaining altitude at an unnatural rate, and landed on the motel roof – four stories up. It smiled once and waved, before fleeing into the night.

Scott prepared to follow on foot, but Stiles stopped him. He was bent low over Danny, cradling the teen's head in his lap. His hands pressed to their friend's neck, blood seeping steadily between his fingers. "We have to get him to the hospital."

Scott looked wistfully towards the roof, but nodded. He lifted the taller man into his arms. "Let's go."

Stiles followed behind. "I know this isn't a good time to say this, but _I told you so._ "


	6. Chapter 6: Old Friend

**Chapter Six: Old Friend**

Close to midnight, Melissa McCall shooed Scott and Stiles from the waiting room and sent them home to sleep. "Danny's condition has stabilized, but he needs to rest. Even if he regains consciousness tonight, he won't be in any shape to talk to anyone. Come back in the morning. I'll call you if anything changes."

The boys readily agreed. Stiles was exhausted and ready for bed. He just wanted to go home, undress, crawl under his covers, guzzle half a bottle of Nyquil, and remain oblivious to the world until noon tomorrow. For some reason, the fact that he had been right about the vampire brought him no satisfaction. He found he couldn't bring himself to triumph in his own perceptiveness. Maybe because the reality of the situation – Danny's gauze-covered neck and IV-riddled arm – was too terrifying to allow boasting.

Sheriff Stilinski stopped him and Scott on their way out of the hospital. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me about this incident? Anything that couldn't be recorded officially in your statements?"

Stiles looked to Scott, wondering how much they could reveal, considering how little they actually knew. They knew _what_ they were dealing with, but they still didn't know what it was doing in Beacon Hills, what it wanted, and how to defeat it. Would it be wise to bring in his father now? Would it be dangerous not to?

Stiles and Scott had created a commotion of monstrous proportions when they had arrived at the hospital covered in blood, Danny dangling limply in Scott's arms. As ER nurses loaded the pale teenager onto a gurney, attempting to staunch the already clotting wounds, experienced hands replaced younger ones. Bags of blood were ordered to off-set the significant blood loss. The police were called, and amidst the tumult and confusion, questions were fired at them and someone yelled about how they shouldn't have moved Danny, should have called the paramedics first – didn't they have any sense?

Sense enough to know the ambulance wouldn't have made it in time.

Melissa rescued them from amid the chaos, seating them in cushioned chairs, bringing towels and glasses of water, so they could wait for the police to arrive. Deputy Parrish and Sheriff Stilinski arrived within ten minutes. The sheriff was silent as the deputy asked questions and made notes on a pad of paper, preparing incident statements for their already bulging case file. Pierce and Santiago did not join them, and Stiles was secretly relieved. His acquaintance with them being one less thing he had to explain to Scott. He didn't need the agents showing up and badgering him about protective custody, bringing awkwardly to light what he had spent two years concealing.

For official records, Scott and Stiles gave an agreed-upon watered-down version of the truth: they had been driving home when they spotted Danny's vehicle parked on the side of the road and heard screaming. They had followed the sound and scared off the attacker. They hadn't gotten a good look at the guy and couldn't describe him. It was too dark. Scott claimed the attacker was of a generic height and build. Dark-haired. Nothing substantial enough to build a profile. No, they hadn't noticed what weapon he used or if he had a getaway vehicle. He had fled on foot.

"So instead of calling the police, two teenage boys chased a would-be murderer on foot?" Parrish asked skeptically.

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

Sheriff Stilinski didn't appreciate his son's sarcasm being levelled against an officer of the law. He had a question of his own, the first he'd had that night: " _What_ were you two doing out that way this late at night?"

Scott looked to Stiles, floundering for an answer. "School project," Stiles supplied lamely. "Just a little something Scott and I are working on for, uh, biology." The sheriff wasn't convinced, but he didn't interrogate them further.

Now, with his father blocking the exit, Stiles admitted: "It was a vampire."

"A _vampire_?" The sheriff's brow furrowed. He was not surprised – flying pigs in green tutus wouldn't have surprised him at this point – merely exasperated. "Of course it was. What else would it be? Any idea how to stop it?"

"Not yet. We're going to talk to Deaton tomorrow afternoon to see if he knows anything."

The sheriff sighed. "Alright." He pointed a finger at his son. "I want you to go straight home to bed. No detours. No little excursions. You've done enough tonight. I don't want you out there while this thing is on the loose."

Stiles smiled and clapped a hand on his father's shoulder. "Don't worry, Dad. The only place I'm headed is Dreamland."

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

Melissa was just finishing a particularly long and tiring night shift when Scott and Stiles arrived at the hospital the next morning. Scott handed her a coffee and breakfast sandwich in a paper bag, moist from the warmth within. She smiled gratefully and stifled a yawn. "Danny's condition improved through the night. He's going to be okay, but he's still weak, so don't excite him." She eyed them knowingly, fixing her gaze on Stiles specifically. "You can go in now and see him, but keep your visit brief. I'm going to get some much deserved shut-eye."

Danny was propped up in bed, flanked by massive pillows and scratchy, bleached sheets. He had IVs attached to his arm, but some of the color had returned to his face. He smiled when they entered and gestured towards the chairs beside his bed. "Hey guys. I guess I should be thanking you. I heard you were the ones who saved me last night."

"How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good. I'm sore, and there's this dull ache throughout my entire body, but I'm doing really well considering I was attacked by a deranged serial killer." Danny squinted. "Stiles, do you mind closing the blinds? The sunlight's bothering my eyes."

"Sure." Stiles fumbled with the cord, getting his fingers tangled before finally figuring out how to shut them.

"Thanks."

"Danny, what happened last night?" Scott asked. "Who was that guy? And what were you doing at a Motel 6?"

Danny's forehead crinkled in concentration. "I can't remember his name, but he said he was an old friend of Stiles'."

"A friend of _mine_?"

"Yeah. That's how we started talking. I was at that new coffee shop that just opened on Fifth Street: The Jitter Bean. Friday nights are open mic nights for slam poets – hey, don't look at me like that!" Stiles was giggling. "Slam poetry is awesome. You'd realize that if you were more cultured. Anyway, if you show them your student ID on slam nights, your second beverage is free. I showed the barista my card and ordered a macchiato. Stiles, I swear!" Stiles' chuckling intensified, and Scott elbowed him painfully in the ribs. For some inexplicable reason, Stiles found the whole hipster atmosphere of Danny's encounter hilarious. It was a far cry from the dark alleys and graveyards he'd read about online. "While I was waiting for my espresso, out of nowhere this voice asked, 'You go to Beacon Hills High School? Maybe you know a friend of mine. His name is Stiles Stilinski.' He startled me, because I hadn't realized anyone was standing there. He was very charming, and we got to talking. He was easy to talk to, friendly, lively. He said he hadn't seen you in a couple years, and he asked what you were doing, what you were up to. He said he had been meaning to pay you a visit."

Stiles wasn't laughing anymore. A knot was forming in the pit of his stomach, clenching and twisting his insides. "What did this guy look like?"

Danny shrugged. "He was attractive, but he wasn't Cary Grant or anything. Brown hair, really pale, maybe early thirties. He had a nice smile though – the whitest teeth I've ever seen. He was alluring, but not an an obvious way. I don't know. It's hard to describe. It was more of a _feeling_ than anything." He inclined his head thoughtfully. "He had these amazing blue eyes; a really beautiful color. Shocking. I don't think I've ever seen anything like them."

A sudden urge to throw up overwhelmed Stiles.

Scott watched Stiles, sensing his change in mood, the burgeoning aroma of dread wafting off him. Though the only change in his body language was his rigid posture, Stiles remained silent. He seemed to have mentally checked out of the conversation, so Scott asked the next question: "What happened after that?"

"He asked if I wanted to go somewhere quieter to talk, but it was already pretty late, so I declined. I offered him a drive home, and he gave me directions to the motel where he was staying. It was out of my way, but I took him there. I'm not really sure what happened then." Danny's face scrunched. "I got out of the car, but I can't remember why I did. He started to attack me, and I guess I blacked out. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in this bed."

Danny looked sallow and drained. "You should probably rest now, Dan. Thanks for the info. I hope you feel better soon. We'll come by again, yeah?" Scott stood, and grabbed a dormant Stiles by the arm, physically guiding him toward the door.

"Hey, I just remembered the guy's name. It had an authorial ring to it– his father's idea, he said. Something about discipline and law and order, or something like that. I think it was Marshall. Yeah, that's it! He said it was ironic that he should have a name like an official police rank, along the lines of a sheriff." Stiles blanched and began to swoon. Scott had to grab him to keep him from falling over. "With friends like that, who needs enemies, right? Thanks again, guys."

 _Marshall isn't my friend,_ Stiles wanted to say, but his mouth wouldn't work. Scott's eyes shone with worry.

"Take care, Danny."

Scott had a million questions, but Stiles was obviously freaked out, and he didn't want to upset him further by prying. He didn't understand how Stiles could have failed to mention that he was friends with a vampire. There had to be some mistake. Certainly Stiles didn't know anyone by Danny's description. But the guy _had_ mentioned Stiles by name and knew where he went to school. That wasn't a coincidence.

Scott walked close to Stiles as they left the building, arms ready in case he passed out. Stiles waved him off as they neared the Jeep and climbed in. Stiles' hands trembled as he started the vehicle and turned right onto the busy street, heading towards the veterinary clinic. By the second intersection, he was shaking so badly Scott was considering demanding he pull over and let him drive (although Stiles _never_ let anyone drive his Jeep) before he got them killed.

Finally, Scott could bear the heavy silence no longer. "Stiles, I-"

"Scott, I finally figured out what all the victims have in common. The one connection that binds them all together. The pattern." Stiles' voice was quiet and grave, barely above a whisper. There was a deadness in his tone that unsettled Scott.

"What? What is it?"

"Me."


	7. Chapter 7: Revelations

_**Because I am using a supernatural creature that has not yet been introduced into the show, I am picking and choosing qualities for my vampire species from pre-existing vampire lore, literature, and pop-culture. (Don't worry, Deaton will outline it all for ya. =P )**_

* * *

 **Chapter Seven: Revelations**

"What are you talking about?"

Stiles banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "Of course, that's it. It all fits. I couldn't see it before, but it all makes sense now."

"Stiles, you're _not_ making any sense."

"Look, there's something I haven't told you."

"What?" Scott hoped he would finally get answers. He was getting sick of being in the dark, of Stiles keeping secrets from him, making lame excuses about needing to deal with things on his own.

Checking for traffic in his rearview mirror and blind spots, Stiles pulled in to the empty parking lot of a tacky nightclub. It was closed on a Saturday morning, but a worker had forgotten to turn off the neon signs for the night, and they glowed feebly in the light of warm sunshine. Scott stared at Stiles, observing as his face changed. The intensity of his eyes as he stared out the windshield at nothing, the tight clench of his teeth. Stiles' knuckles turned whiter as he gripped the steering wheel, the spidery veins in his hands dark and embossed under his fair skin. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, his jugular throbbing.

"What is it? Are you okay?" Scott reached out to rest a hand on his best friend's shoulder, but Stiles shrank away from his touch. Stiles shook his head forcefully. He couldn't stand to be touched right then, not if he was going to be able to tell his story.

"I haven't told you everything about that night two years ago when I ran away. I wanted to keep it a secret, to forget it ever happened. But now...there's no alternative...I thought about telling you so many times, but I didn't know how. I must have tried to plan out the conversation in my head a million times, but I could never figure out how to start, what words to use. I kept telling myself the time wasn't right; how do you even bring up something like this? I was scared. Scared of what you'd think. Scared too, I guess, that if I said it out loud the words would make it real, would force me to relive that night all over again." A single tear slipped out and trailed down his cheek. "I can't avoid it now."

"Stiles-"

"I need you to listen without interrupting, okay? Or I'll never be able to get this out. I know who the vampire is, and I know why he's in Beacon Hills."

Stiles told Scott everything, starting from the moment they had parted ways in front of Stiles' house, the weight of Scott's promise hanging between them. He told Scott how quickly he had realized running away was a mistake, but had refused to turn back, because he couldn't handle the failure. He told Scott how he had foolishly decided to hitch-hike at night, how no one had stopped to pick him up, except the blue-eyed man in the Ford Edge. A man who turned out to be a serial rapist and killer. "Just my luck: the first time I hitch-hike and I end up accepting a ride from a murderer." Stiles laughed without humour, but Scott didn't find it funny.

Stiles repeated for Scott as much of his conversation with the man as he could remember, as accurately as he could; most of Marshall's words seared verbatim into his brain. Every utterance at the campsite burned into him, that voice so clear and acute in his mind, he could have been standing next to him. No matter how many meds Stiles swallowed, he'd never forget what Marshall whispered in the dark, poison dripped into his soul.

Stiles spared Scott the graphic and dirty details of what Marshall had done – tried to do – to him, providing just enough information to communicate the man's intentions. He focused on being rescued by his father, emphasizing the sheriff's courage and love. How his father continued to save him every day.

Scott listened without disruption, choking back the cries of outrage on the tip of his tongue. The hand he had been going to place on Stiles' shoulder balled into a fist on his leg, his nails growing into claws, cutting into his palms and drawing blood. His eyes flashed the slightest shade of red.

Stiles didn't look at him as he told his narrative, didn't remove his hands from the steering wheel. He continued to stare straight ahead, the words coming easier, steadier, the more he revealed. A great rush of confession once the floodgates had been open. But there was a flatness to his voice – that earlier deadness – that disturbed Scott, a detachment as though Stiles were reading a news story he had memorized. A story that didn't involve him.

Emotion returned to Stiles' voice only when he spoke of his father. Of the trip they had taken to Santa Monica that summer, hoping a change of location would promote healing and help mend the rift between them. The beaches and bikinis ruined by the nightmares that plagued him in the dark, waking up screaming in strange beds, until his father calmed him down again.

When Stiles had finished, a pregnant silence expanded between them. Both boys stared out the windshield watching a plastic bag, caught in the wind, tumbling around the parking lot.

"You see," Stiles commented after a minute, "this is all about me. Marshall killed that first guy because his name was Jackson; Tyrone was originally from Santa Monica; Bachmann owned the only comic book store in town – meaning he knew all about superheroes and villains, and was probably known by me; Perez was a young cyclist camping in the woods around town. And Danny just told us that Marshall only showed interest in him after he learned Dan went to the same high school as me. Every one of them connects back to something I said or did that night." Stiles turned to look at Scott, his wide hickory-eyes watery and panicked. He shuddered as he exhaled. His voice throaty as he whispered, "He's coming for me, Scott. He's coming to get me."

"Stiles, I'm not going to let that happen. Stiles!" His best friend's breathing had escalated to near-hyperventilation. "Stiles, hey, listen to me. Stiles. Look at me." Scott gripped Stiles' forearm, ensuring Stiles was paying attention to his next words. "I am _not_ going to let anything happen to you. This creep will be dead before he gets anywhere near you. I promise."

 _Don't make promises you can't keep._ Stiles despaired, but the confidence and affection with which Scott spoke, Scott's own unwavering faith in his ability to protect his best friend, combined with his physical touch, helped settle Stiles' frazzled nerves. Stiles drew in deep calming breaths and relaxed his tense muscles, reclining into the worn familiarity of the driver's seat.

Scott continued to keep hold of Stiles as he calmed down, attempting to transmit through that touch all his concern, friendship, loyalty, strength and love. He wouldn't abandon Stiles. He didn't view him any differently now that he knew his friend's secret. It didn't make any difference. Stiles always had been and would always be his brother, no matter what.

Scott would be damned if he let anyone hurt his brother.

Stiles leaned his head back against the headrest, closed his eyes and released a pent-up sigh. The silence returned, loud and thick between them, but not uncomfortable. He wondered what Scott was thinking, what he thought about Stiles' confession.

Finally, Scott asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"It's not something that's easy for me to talk about. I didn't want to drag it up. I wanted to forget it ever happened, and get on with my life. I didn't want people to find out and look at me differently. I didn't want anyone to know."

"Even me?"

"Especially you." Stiles rubbed at his temples. "I didn't want you..." He trailed off.

"Hey," Scott placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. "I'll always be here for you."

Stiles smiled meekly. "I know. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"You've told me now, and that's all that matters."

"I don't understand. Marshall definitely wasn't a vampire that night, and he's spent the last two years in prison. When could he have been turned? And by whom?"

"I don't know, but we're going to figure this out. We'll go see Deaton, and hopefully he'll give us some answers. I also think it's time we told the others."

"Okay, but we don't tell my dad. Not yet."

"Stiles-"

"This would kill him, Scott, if he knew that not only is Marshall back but he's a supernatural, blood-thirsty, monstrous super-villain wannabe – well, more blood-thirsty and monstrous – and he's probably coming after me."

"Alright," Scott agreed, seeing Stiles' point. He pulled out his cell-phone and searched for Kira in his speed-dial. "We won't tell him right now, but it's time I clued the rest of the pack into what's happening."

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

As of late Scott's Scooby Gang had suffered major loses. The nogitsune had killed Allison and Aiden, Ethan had left, and Isaac was gone, having travelled with Chris Argent to rural France, with no intention of returning. Boyd and Erica had been dead for weeks, and Derek was missing in action. Scott had called him several times, but his phone always went straight to voice-mail. He left a few messages, hoping Derek would receive them soon. Scott knew that if Stiles was in trouble, Derek would want to do whatever he could to help.

In the end, when they met in the veterinarian's office that afternoon, there were only six of them: Scott and Stiles, Deaton, Kira, Malia, and Lydia. Telling his story for the second time that day, Stiles omitted most of the details of his encounter with Marshall, glossing over that night dismissively. He explained that the recent killings in town were the work of a vampire, of a vampire serial-killer to be precise, whom Stiles had had the misfortune of meeting a couple years ago. They had reason to believe the vampire was targeting Stiles, and they needed to be ready in case he made his move.

"That," Stiles finished, "is where you come in, Deaton. There is a lot of vampire lore, but I don't know what's true and what isn't."

Deaton nodded sagely. "There hasn't been a vampire in this area in over a hundred years. They tend to stick to larger urban areas, where food is plentiful and disappearances are less obvious and unusual. If a few people vanish from time to time in the city, no one notices. Vampires are a disruption to the natural order, because their existence is dependent on the consumption of blood – a practice condemned as evil by many ancient texts and most of the world's major religions. The life-blood of humans is considered sacred. Vampires are similar to werewolves in that once they are changed they become better versions of their human selves: their senses of sight and smell are heightened, they are able to read the emotions of others, have the ability to heal, and possess extraordinary strength, speed, and agility."

"Which explains how Marshall could jump that building."

Deaton nodded. "Unlike werewolves, vampires lose most of their humanity upon transformation, despite their appearances, and are essentially 'undead.' They are manipulative and appealing, easily attracting prey, able to disarm human anxieties. Sunlight irritates them – much in the manner an itchy mosquito bite would – but it does not kill them. Garlic does not repel them, nor do crucifixes or holy water. Bullets are useless against them. The best preventative advice I can give you is this: never invite a vampire into your house. Due to ancient magical laws, a vampire cannot enter a private dwelling without an invitation. However, once invited they will be able to enter whenever they please, though I doubt you would still be alive after their first visit.

"Younger and lower ranked vampires can be staked through the heart. You _must_ impale through the heart. If you miss, you're as good as dead. Your safest bet when killing a vampire is always decapitation. Head vampires – similar to an Alpha werewolf – are even stronger, faster, and smarter. They are able to create new vampires to form their 'coven,' that is, their pack. Like werewolves, a vampire's rank can usually be identified by the color of their eyes when they are in their true states. A Head vampire can _only_ be killed by beheading and dismembering, and then lighting the pieces on fire."

"Woah."

"Gross."

"How are we supposed to get close enough to cut off his head, if vampires are as strong as you say?"

"You only have to behead him if he's a Head vampire, otherwise impalement will suffice." Deaton turned to Scott. "What color were his eyes?"

Scott thought for a moment. The vampire's bright irises had subconsciously registered as being strange, but he hadn't had time to consider why they were. "Silver," he said at last.

"Then he's a Head Vampire."

"Great," Stiles groaned. "So not only is this guy powerful, but he could be creating a whole legion of undead followers!"

"Is there any way," Lydia interrupted practically, before Stiles worked himself into a frenzy, "we could slow the vampire down, in order to get close enough to kill him?"

Deaton considered the question for a moment. "A vampire is most vulnerable when he hasn't fed. Unfortunately, our vamp seems to be richly nourished. You claim he's already killed four people, that you know of. There are tales, however, which suggest that if a vampire consumes the blood of a dead man, he will be temporarily weakened."

"Okay, so how do we trick him into draining a corpse?"

"You don't." Deaton rummaged through a metal drawer and extracted a large syringe, its needle queasily pointed and sharp. "You can't fool the Deceiver. You'll have to inject him."

Now they were making progress. They finally knew who the killer was, _what_ he was, and how to kill him. All they needed to do was outline a plan, find the sucker, jab him with a needle, and slice off his head.

Stiles' phone chirped from the front pocket of his jeans. "Hello?" he answered, feeling more reassured than he had in days. But as the person on the other end communicated their message, his eyes widened and strangely dimmed. His smile faded. The others waited, Scott straining his werewolf ears to catch snatches. "That was my dad," Stiles said, after he hung up. "They found another body this morning. Trigg Andrews."


	8. Chapter 8: The Countess

**Chapter Eight: The Countess**

"Stay here," Scott commanded, the growl in his voice leaving no room for argument.

Stiles disputed the order anyway. "Come on, Scott-"

"No, Stiles. It's too dangerous. This creep is after _you_."

"It's broad daylight!" Stiles flailed his arms toward the window in emphasis. "He wouldn't dare come after me now. He'll be sleeping in a coffin somewhere, or whatever vampires do when the sun's out."

Scott shook his head. "It's still too dangerous. I'm not taking any chances. Malia, Kira, and I will check it out. You and Lydia can-"

"Go to the library," Lydia interrupted quickly.

Stiles groaned. "The library? Stake me now." Lydia smacked his arm. "Ow!"

"You said you found an old necklace at one of the crime-scenes," she spoke slowly, as though explaining an obvious concept to a child for the umpteenth time. " _Maybe_ if we can figure out what it is, where it came from, we'll have a better chance of finding this guy."

Stiles looked ready to protest, but Scott cut in, "That's a great idea, Lydia. You guys should do that, while we're checking out Trigg's murder." He and the other two girls exited quickly, leaving Stiles alone in the parking lot with Lydia, his mouth agape.

"You should close your mouth, or you'll attract flies."

"Hmph!" He declared with a pout, crossing his arms over his chest sulkily.

"Come on, Cry Baby. We'll take my car."

They didn't speak much on the drive to the library, the air conditioning in Lydia's Prius cranked to the maximum, blasting cold air and an indie playlist from her iPod. They parked to the left of a two-storey brick building, at least a century old, with towering radius windows and wide stone steps leading to the entrance. The structure was surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges and flower gardens, teeming with flora of differing colors and species. A water fountain to the left and elegant wooden benches completed the effect, giving the library an essence of grandeur and gentility.

Stiles hadn't actually set foot inside the Beacon Hills Public Library since his mother had died. She was the only reason he had gone as a child, hoping to encourage in him a lifelong habit of reading. All her attempts to instill in him the same love of literature that burned inside her had been extinguished between the vastness of the Internet, television, and video games. His father was no great reader, and after Claudia's death, thick novels had become nothing more than painful reminders of a woman whose passion was exceeded only by her beautiful imagination, thus putting an end to library visits.

When Stiles hesitated at the top of the steps, Lydia took his hand, and opened the great oak doors. It was as if she had opened a portal into another world. Massive bookshelves dominated the wood-panelled room, the natural light pouring through the windows illuminating books and tables with a celestial glow. A reverent and humble silence hovered in the air, fragrant with the smell of printed pages and ink, alive with the spark of imagination, intelligence, and fantasy. The spell broken only by a number of Mac computers to the right, where the elderly typed two fingered on keyboards, and young children virtually killed zombies and role played, calling to each other loudly, their shouts harshly reprimanded by the prim woman behind the circulation desk.

Stiles recognized the ancient librarian who sat behind the desk: Miss Josephine Trainor. Her round, gold-rimmed spectacles perpetually sliding down her angular nose, her beady azure eyes shifting suspiciously, her messy ashen hair swept into a taunt bun away from her mousy face. An aggravated "Shh!" always ready and loaded on the tip of her forked tongue. Lydia flashed the woman a sweet smile. An upturned grimace appeared on the librarian's mouth, and Stiles could have sworn it was meant to be a smile in reply.

Lydia navigated the rows of shelves with ease. She claimed them a table near the back of the nonfiction section, huddled between the 790s – books on sports, games, and entertainment – and the 800s – literature, rhetoric, and criticism. She withdrew her pink laptop from her designer COACH rogue bag and logged in. Stiles sneakily peered into her purse, amazed at the amount of stuff she had managed to pack into it. How could this girl walk in stiletto heels all day _and_ carry a purse loaded with enough items to stock a small department store? He was, as always, astounded by the wonder that was Lydia Martin.

Lydia cleared her throat impatiently, and extended her moisturized palm toward him. He gawked at her hand uncomprehendingly. "Show me the necklace, Stiles."

"Oh, right!" Stiles fetched a satin drawstring bag from his pocket and passed it to her. He had found the pouch crumpled in the back of the junk drawer in their kitchen, and decided it would make a more fitting container for the necklace than a random sandwich bag – even if the locket _did_ belong to a villainous vampire. "I don't think it belongs to Marshall. It doesn't seem like something he would have."

"It's really old," Lydia commented, whistling appreciatively as she inspected the locket, transfixed. "This is beautiful. There's a story behind it, there has to be. A reason someone created such a lovely piece. And look – it matches my outfit perfectly." Lydia, always on the lookout for fab new accessories, fastened the chain around her milky white throat. The pendant nestled just north of her lovely bosom. Stiles had to admit: it did look wonderful on her. The gold, untarnished by time, brought out the bright amber ring encircling her pupils.

Pupils suddenly dilated. Lydia's face was twisted in agony.

"Lydia, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Screaming. Voices. Hundreds of them."

Lydia's lips parted into a perfect O. Stiles knew what was coming next. He ripped the locket from her neck, shattering the links in the antique chain, and shoved it deep into his pocket. Lydia swallowed her scream, visibly relaxed, and massaged the nape of her neck. "Thanks." She smiled.

"What the hell is this thing?"

"Let me see it again." Stiles raised his eyebrows. "I'm okay. I promise. I just need to look at it. I swear, I'm fine." Reluctantly, Stiles held up the necklace, gripping it tightly by its broken chain. Lydia's open palm hovered under the pendant, but she did not touch it. She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "I know I've seen this somewhere before." She opened the Google homepage in Chrome and typed into the search engine. "Aha. Yes." She turned her screen toward Stiles.

"That's it!"

"SHHH!"

Stiles lowered his voice. "Who is that?"

"Countess von Montfort. I knew I'd seen this locket before. This painting was part of a temporary European exhibit at a museum in New York City when I was there a few years ago with my parents. She _is_ beautiful." The painting in question was a portrait of a brunette woman in a magnificent white gown. Her chestnut-colored hair brushed back into an elegant coiffure; her dark eyes stared longingly to one side, unconcerned by the artist and viewer, engrossed by her own private thoughts. A shawl draped loosely over her arms, a brilliant splash of color and solid fabric, against the layers of lace, ribbon, silk, and pearls in which she was adorned. She had fine features and ivory skin, a firm chin that spoke of nobility and strength. And there, ensconced between her slender collarbone and frilly ruff, was the locket.

Lydia clicked several links for more information, but received only the same fragments: the portrait had been painted by the esteemed Italian artist Gian Franco Abbiati in the early eighteenth century. It depicted the Austrian-Hungarian Countess Alissa von Montfort, born 1798, the only daughter of Baron Dietrich von Stubenberg. She had disappeared only a few months after the completion of the portrait, on the night her entire household was massacred. "They never found her body."

"Does it say what happened to the necklace? Where it came from?"

"I don't know. There isn't anything else. Wait, one minute!" Lydia typed something into her keyboard, and then disappeared into the labyrinth of bookshelves. She re-emerged several minutes later, her arms laden with books. She dropped them onto the table in front of Stiles with a _BANG_ , a cloud of dust floating up from the older and lesser used volumes.

Stiles coughed. "We're not actually going to read all these, are we?"

Lydia smiled mischievously and clucked her tongue. "How can someone so smart be afraid of a little reading?"

"A little?" Stiles heaved the first book closer. "You call _this '_ a little'?"

They spent the better part of two hours flipping through old texts. Lydia had culled the shelves for everything from histories and encyclopedias, to academic biographies and speculative conspiracies, to books on jewelry and art – anything that mentioned either the countess or Abbiati's painting. Stiles soon learned that not everything can be found on the Internet; written history was so vast and obscure.

Together they soon complied a short biography of the noble, whose reputation as a beautiful and adulterous woman had caused quite the scandal, along with her fascination with what scholars loosely described as 'the dark arts.' Stiles had just fallen asleep, his cheek smushed against a musty page, drool pooling ominously at the corner of his mouth, when Lydia exclaimed, "I found it!"

Lydia traced her manicured fingernail under the text as she read: "'Countess Alissa Von Montfort (née von Stubenberg), pictured above in what is indisputably the most acclaimed work of Gian Franco Abbiati's short career. Aside from Abbiati's brilliant use of lighting, color, and shade, his portrait skills were unparalleled in his ability to capture the radiance, beauty, and mystery of the elusive countess. This painting, perhaps the most well known of Abbiati's some eighty works, has gained interest among historian, scholars, and lovers of art alike because of the infamy and tragedy surrounding the sitter herself.

"'Alissa von Montfort, the handsome and head-strong daughter of the esteemed Baron Von Stubenberg, was described in her youth as a precocious, willful, stubborn, and passionate child. Raised under the careful eye of her doting parents and five elder brothers, this Austrian-Hungarian beauty entertained many suitors and proposals of marriage, from nobility and commoner alike. Her evident enjoyment of male attention, and her reputation as, to turn a contemporary phrase, 'a tease' proved to be an alarming trait for an esteemed nobleman's only daughter. However, at the tender age of seventeen, Alissa's hand was given in marriage to Count Eldwin Amery von Montfort by her parents, despite her own lack of congenial feeling for the nobleman. Her father believed the match beneficial and lucrative, connecting his own household and rank to one of greater importance, influence, and wealth.

"'Despite finding herself in the lap of luxury, and the mistress of an estate which far exceeded that of her father, Alissa was disillusioned with the stiff and overly-refined lifestyle of her boorish husband, and her marriage to a man who regarded her as merely another of his numerous possessions. Her apathy towards her husband soon festered into contempt and repulsion, fueled by his purported gluttony, cruelty, and lechery.

"'Another problem soon arose for the young countess: despite pressure from her husband and society to bear a child, the couple could not conceive. Though Alissa was blamed for this impotency, the count was believed to have been rendered sterile by a childhood case of typhoid fever. Five difficult and disappointing years into her marriage, in 1820 the Count and Countess entertained in their home a travelling English merchant, a dealer of rare and beautiful objects. He was a young, worldly, affluent, and handsome man by the name of Jernigan – believed to be the subject of the portrait pictured left.'

"He is handsome," Lydia paused to interject.

"Keep reading!"

"Fine. I was only commenting. 'With the arrival of the merchant began Alissa's whirlwind love-affair, resulting in her first pregnancy. Despite his own lechery and desire for an heir, when Count von Montfort discovered his wife's infidelity, he had her locked in a tower to hide her shame. When her bastard child was born, he had the infant and her English lover murdered before her eyes.'" Lydia gasped. "That's horrible!"

Stiles was absorbed in the story, excited that they may have found something useful in connection to the locket. He hurriedly continued where she had left off: "'The countess became a recluse, withdrawing into her dark chambers, wandering the halls at night weeping for her dead love and child. The following winter, tragedy further struck the von Montfort estate. The night of February 9th 1821, the entire household was brutally slaughtered, and Alissa disappeared. Rumors spread wildly – among upper and superstitious lower classes alike – based on the testimony of the lone survivor of the massacre: Alissa's personal lady's-maid. The woman claimed she had witnessed the countess 'make a deal with the devil' in exchange for the power to destroy her husband.'"

Stiles jumped up excitedly, his finger leaping farther down the page. "This is it!" According to the author, the locket around the countess's neck in Abbiati's portrait had been a gift from her English lover. She was reported to have never removed it, even while sleeping and bathing. "This locket belonged to her!"

"But what would it be doing in Beacon Hills?"

Lydia could practically see the wheels turning in Stiles' head. "The book says her entire household was massacred at night, and the maid saw her with a demonic figure, right?"

"You don't think-"

"Countess von Montfort was a vampire!"

Lydia chewed her bottom lip. The vampire theory would explain the amount of death, blood, and agony she had sensed from the locket. "But what would she be doing _here,_ in America, in a small town in California? I thought you said Marshall was the vampire. Are they working together?"

"I don't know; that doesn't sound like Marshall, but this is our first real clue. This gives us something to go on. We need to meet up with Scott and the others."

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

The crime-scene was swarming with cops and forensic teams. When Scott, Malia, and Kira arrived, they watched as two paramedics strapped a black body bag onto a gurney and loaded it into the ambulance. To their wolf/coyote/fox sensibilities the stench of blood was overwhelming and nauseating. Scott and Malia were growling savagely under their breath before they had even gotten within visual range. Scott's eyes flashed, and Malia gnashed her teeth. (Apparently a vampire's scent was just as repugnant to a werecoyote as it was to a werewolf.)

Scott warned Malia to stay back, since she still hadn't mastered her shifting. But she was stubborn and headstrong, a twenty-first century woman who didn't appreciate commands, from her Alpha or otherwise. She barked a snappy reply to his warning: he _needed_ her if he was going to find this freak and help Stiles. If he didn't like it, he could shove it. She wasn't going to standby passively while a vampire hunted her boyfriend.

Sheriff Stilinski spotted the trio prowling around the edge of the crime-scene. "What are you three doing here? Where's Stiles?"

"The library. With Lydia."

The existence of vampires hadn't shocked the sheriff, but this bit of news did. "He's at the _library_?"

"Long story."

The sheriff forbade them from looking around – he couldn't have them trampling all over a fresh crime-scene – but in hushed whispers provided them with what little information he had, occasionally interspersed with loud authoritative reprimands at the deputies milling about. "It's the same as the others. Bite marks in the throat. Drained. Significant internal and external injuries: broken bones, bruising, ruptured organs. We'll know more once the body's been examined." The sheriff glanced over his shoulder at a young deputy sitting with his head in his hands, a shock blanket draped across his shoulders. "Trigg may have had his problems, but he was a good kid at heart." The nerves in Stilinski's jaw twitched. "We need to catch this bastard. If he kills one more boy... ..." His hand hovered over the gun holstered at his hip. "Have you figured out the pattern? What does it want? Or are these killings random? Just complete chaos?"

Scott decided now was _not_ a good time to tell the sheriff that the correlation between all the victims, the vampire's prime target, was his only son. He hated lying to the man who had always been like a second father to him (and, in recent years, more of a father to him than his biological one), but he had no choice. "No, we don't know yet. We'll keep looking."

Sheriff Stilinski swore under his breath. "Keep me posted. And you kids be careful."

"We will." Scott's phone chirped as the sheriff wandered off to join his bereaved deputy. A text from Stiles proposed they reconvene as a group and swap news.

"Why didn't you tell the sheriff about Stiles?" Kira asked.

"I don't want him to worry."

"He'll do more than worry if we can't catch this guy."

The gang met up, at Stiles' request, at a local pizzeria, as it was nearing supper time. As they stuffed their faces with thick crust, pepperoni, and three kinds of meat, they traded stories. "What's the connection?" Lydia asked, daintily picking black olives off a slice.

"Marshall wasn't always a vampire," Stiles reminded them, a hunk of partially chewed dough and melted cheese rolling around his mouth. "Someone had to turn him, right? Maybe that someone was Countess Alissa."

"This is becoming more complicated by the minute," Malia remarked. "When do we get to start the hunting and killing part?"

Scott was about to respond when his cell rang loudly. He instantly recognized the special ringtone reserved for his mother. He answered immediately. "Mom? What's up? Everything okay?"

"Scott, honey," Melissa's voice was low and scratchy. "I have some bad news. Danny flat-lined forty-five minutes ago. They weren't able to revive him. I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." Her voice broke. "Danny's dead."

* * *

 ** _I hope you found the (fake) historical background on the Countess interesting.  
As a special feature for this chapter, I created a Pinterest board. If you are interested in seeing some _real-life paintings that inspired the creation of the Countess Von Montfort _and the locket I used as a model, I can be found at_ [pinterest website] "/notime_tostop/"**


	9. Chapter 9: Blood & Whiskey

_**CHAPTER WARNING: contains alcohol usage and some mild gore.  
Don't forget to leave a review, dears!**_

* * *

 **Chapter Nine: Blood & Whiskey**

That night was solemn for all of them, but none were as utterly shocked and grieved as Scott and Stiles. They had failed Danny. Despite all their efforts, they had been unable to protect him.

"I don't understand," Scott stammered, unable to comprehend their sudden and painful loss; another friend gone. His voice was raw and choked as it crackled through the phone to Stiles' ear. "We _saved_ him. He can't be dead. He looked fine this morning."

"Yeah."

"I mean, we _saved_ him," Scott reiterated in disbelief. He could still feel the weight of Danny in his arms as he carried him into the hospital; his nostrils still familiar with the smell of his blood. "Mom said his condition seemed to be improving. He was getting better. _How can Danny be dead?_ "

"I don't know, bro." It was all Stiles could say.

Because he didn't know. He didn't know how someone could be alive and healthy one second and suddenly gone the next. He didn't know how a person could be abruptly wrenched from your life, leaving a hole you didn't realize could exist. How you could see someone everyday and never understand the impact of each individual on your life until they weren't there anymore. No, Stiles didn't know how or why. Mountains of psychology books had been written on the subject, but he could read all of them and still not understand his grief. He would never know why the people around him continued to die before their times, leaving gaps where friends should be. He didn't know why he and Scott seemed destined to lose everyone they cared about.

The universe didn't care whether Stiles could make sense of it or not; understanding his grief, the crappy cards life had dealt him, wouldn't stop any of it from happening. He was powerless in the face of Death, insatiable and cruel. He wondered how much more of this his heart could take. Each loss was another stab chipping away pieces of his soul. Soon there would be nothing left inside him but Grief and Misery – his old, familiar companions.

No matter how many people he lost, Stiles would never get used to the pain.

The worst part was: Danny's death was his fault. The others too – Lewis, Jones, Bachmann, Perez. Another one for the increasing list of people he'd played a part in killing. Stiles cut Scott off mid-sentence and lamely excused himself on the pretext of needing sleep. He didn't have the energy to console Scott; his own guilt was too suffocating. "Alright, man. I'll see you tomorrow."

"We'll meet at Deaton's around 9:30, yeah?"

"Okay. Cool."

"Stiles, we're going to catch this guy."

"Sure."

Stiles disconnected the call and settled into bed. He lightly traced his fingers along the edge of the chef's knife hidden under his pillow. The cool blade comforted him. It wasn't your traditional wooden stake, but it would have to do.

Despite his exhaustion, a weariness so heavy and debilitating he could feel it in every bone in his body, Stiles was too anxious to sleep. His body begged for rest, but his mind resisted. Instead he lied awake in the dark, every shadow across the blank ceiling reminding him of a different nightmare. He listened for his father's return, wondering how he was ever going to tell him about Marshall. He considered a million ways he could approach the subject, but each one seemed more traumatic and stupid than the last. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to tell him until it was over. Maybe they'd defeat Marshall and one morning at breakfast, Stiles would nonchalantly let it slip, "Hey, Dad, you don't have to worry about protective custody anymore. You know that vampire we smoked, it was Marshall! Problem solved."

Unfortunately, luck was rarely on Stiles' side.

Sheriff Stilinski finally stumbled into the house around 2:30, according to the red numbers glaring into the darkened room. Stiles heard his heavy footsteps slowly thudding up the stairs. He threw off his covers and opened his door a crack. His father was attempting to navigate the narrow hallway in the dark. He bumped into an old Dutch bureau – purchased by Claudia, a year after their wedding, at an antique shop in Los Angeles – and swore loudly.

"Dad?" Stiles asked, stepping into the corridor and flicking a switch on the wall. Sheriff Stilinski blinked blearily at the sudden bright light.

"Oh, hi, Sty. Ha – hi, Sty."

"Are you _drunk_?" The alcoholic fumes drenching his father were answer enough. "What did you do, _bathe_ in it?"

"Ha! Now there's an i-idea! When I to-ok Trevor home, he invited me to stay for a drink or t-two. I said su-sure!" the sheriff bellowed, referring to Deputy Trevor Andrews. Stiles guessed 'a drink or two' had turned into several more than that. John staggered toward his room, nearly knocking over a fake potted plant in the process. "S-stupid thing!"

Stiles ran to steady his intoxicated father and guided him to his room. He sat him on the bed, helped him remove his jacket, and knelt down to untie his boots. "Damn good cop," John muttered, quieter now. "Really thought he'd last. Quit this afternoon. Seeing his brother like that, all butchered up – too much for him. And then to hear poor Danny Māhealani didn't make it. Two good boys taken from us. S-some-one's gotta stop that _thing_ from hurting our boys."

Stiles had slipped the second boot off, when his father grabbed his face between his huge hands. The way John cupped his cheeks, firm and gentle, he had nowhere to look but into his father's blotchy red face. The sheriff's eyes were dewy and bloodshot, squinted as he struggled to focus his vision. But he regarded Stiles determinedly.

"You're a good boy." John's voice had lost its volume, a faint whisper of sound, each word carefully measured and uttered. "You took care of your mom when she was sick, and you take care of me. You take care of Scott and his pack. You take good care of everyone, without them even asking, and I hope they all take good care of you. You're brave and smart. Real smart-ass too. But you've got a mind of your own, and a good head on your shoulders. You're a damn good boy, a damned good one, and I love ya." The sheriff patted his cheek and then flopped over; he squirmed up the sheets to grab a pillow. All the while he mumbled, "My boy doesn't run away. He's strong. Stronger than I was at that age. Hell, stronger than I am now. A damn good boy. Gonna kill a vampire. If anyone can kill it, he can, my son. My son." A few further muffled sentences were incoherently murmured into the pillow, before being replaced by great, thundering snores.

"I love you too, Dad." Stiles kissed his father's head and turned off the light. He wondered if John would remember any of this in the light of day. He quietly crouched down and whispered the secret of the vampire's identity in his father's ear, knowing he'd never be able to tell him any other way.

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

The sheriff's phone rang loudly at 7am, rudely awakening him from a deep, inebriated slumber. An uneasy feeling settled over him as he searched his pockets, realizing he was still dressed from the day before. "Hello?" he groaned, his mouth cotton-thick and bitter tasting, like pennies and ass. He sat up slowly to keep the room from spinning.

"Sheriff Stilinski? Special Agent Jason Pierce, FBI." John wasn't sure why the man always insisted on identifying himself by his full appellation. He bit back a sarcastic retort and asked, "What can I do for you?"

"I need you down here, at our hotel, right away. ... Santiago's been murdered."

Sheriff Stilinski changed into fresh clothes, splashed cold water on his face, swallowed three aspirin and an anti-nauseant, chased down by a quick cup of stale coffee, and was ready to go. He left a brief note for Stiles on the kitchen counter and explained where he had gone. He had vague recollections of the previous night, and feared he had made a jackass of himself in front of his son. He didn't have time to worry about it though. He was needed elsewhere, and he needed to remember where he had left the cruiser, since it wasn't parked in their driveway and he had no memory of how he'd gotten home last night.

The day was overcast but warm. A moisture in the air prophesied the possibility of rain. The roads were deserted so early on a gloomy Sunday morning. Sheriff Stilinski walked the few blocks to ex-Deputy Andrews' house, where his cruiser was safely parked, and headed for the Magdalene Hotel on South Street. When he arrived at the hotel – a modest, four-star establishment near the mall – there were already several police vehicles clustered around the main entrance. Inside the comfortably furnished lobby, an officer responsible for Public Relations was attempting, with the aid of a nervous concierge, to keep panicked guests calm and relaxed.

Pierce was slumped in an overstuffed leather armchair beside a faux-fireplace. When the sheriff entered, he stood and made his way over. Despite being indoors, he wore a thick knitted turtleneck and dark shades. He shook Stilinski's hand stiffly and croaked, "Elana." He paused, collected himself, and cleared his throat. "She's in room 312. I-I can't go back in there, Sheriff. You understand?" John nodded. He, perhaps better than anyone, understood. He, who had worn sunglasses for days after his wife's death, to hide his puffy eyes; who sometimes woke in the middle of the night, reaching instinctively across the sheets for the warm body of his sleeping love, only to find the cold emptiness of her absence.

Sheriff Stilinski rode the elevator up to the third floor. As the steel doors grinded shut, his reflection stared back at him accusingly. He disdained the hungover man he saw, the bloodshot eyes and visibly pounding and aching temples. What had he been thinking last night, joining Trevor Andrews as he got wasted? Downing glass after glass of whiskey and vodka, shots of tequila that were inappropriate for a man of his age and rank, seeking a reprieve that never came for a pain that would never heal. Trying to numb himself against this case, against the bodies of dark-haired boys piling up around him that made him think of his son, numb himself to the sick bastard who had alluded police and was out there somewhere.

He should have known by now that drinking never solved anything; it only served to leave him feeling hollow and guilty. Worse off than he had been before. He had a hazy recollection of Stiles helping him to bed. He felt a sting of regret that he had allowed his son to see him in such a state, that he had made them both vulnerable by getting completely smashed, that he had left Stiles to pick up the pieces once again. He had to hold together if he was going to be able to protect Stiles from Marshall and to stop this rampaging vampire.

Sometimes it was too much for him – the police work and supernatural creatures; the bodies and blood; the pressure of protecting people who put their faith in him, who expected him to be always a model of strength and safety; the difficulty of raising a teenage son alone in what had to be the werewolf capital of California. Half the time he had no idea what he was doing, guessing and hoping he made the right choices; faking it until he made it, as his father used to say.

When it all became too overwhelming, the sweet guarantee that a bottle promised tempted him. Sometimes he didn't want to resist its siren's call. But giving in, allowing himself those moments of oblivion, were tantamount to hiding. An admission of defeat in the guise of escapism.

No more. He wouldn't drink anymore.

If Stiles wasn't running away, neither was he.

The elevator doors opened, and the sheriff was immediately hit with the fetor of blood. The scent more noxious and putrid than he had ever smelled. Sticky, metallic, and rancid. He absurdly thought of crime and medical shows on television, of war films and horror movies, how even with their grotesque depictions and expensive special effects they could never accomplish the full effect of such a scene without the smell. Could never capture all the emotions and queasiness that accompany the realization that what you're smelling, what you're seeing, belongs to another human being. The liquid life that should be flowing internally in their veins externally unveiled to you, your insides twisting as you recognize your own pulse, the warmth of the blood still within you. How can one person hold so much of it?

The sheriff's stomach lurched dangerously, and he had to swallow the bile creeping up his esophagus. He braced himself for the oncoming scene, and stepped out of the elevator. Officers crowded the hallway, few of them venturing into the accursed room. A young forensics crime-scene photographer, Nikon camera slung around his neck, lumbered out of 312 and promptly vomited into a maid's cart, puke splattering on his jacket. The sheriff winced, fighting the temptation to turn and flee.

Deputy Parrish was already there. His face was blanched and green-tinged. At the appearance of his superior officer, he took a deep breath – which hardly helped – and composed himself. "You're going to want to see this," he said by way of greeting, and boldly re-entered the room.

Sheriff Stilinski had thought the other crime-scenes were horrible, but they were nothing compared to this.

There was blood everywhere, on every imaginable surface. Spattered on dresser drawers and nightstands; staining wallpaper, curtains and lampshades – red droplets already crusted into a dark maroon; seeping into the carpet and pooling into the sheets. Stilinski thought queasily of the _Nightmare on Elm Street –_ the first, and last, horror film he had seen in theatres – when Johnny Depp's character was killed, the fountain of blood that surged forth.

Elana Santiago was sprawled naked on the bed in an ocean of her own blood. Spidery red rivulets streaming down her slender arms and legs. As he cautiously approached, Sheriff Stilinski beheld the gore that accompanied such carnage: bits of flesh and tissue, a wide cavernous hole in her abdomen, exposing a mess of tangled and pureed organs, a mulch of mutilation, the wreckage of sinews and muscles, partially exposed bones. Most of her throat was gone completely; her face a mosaic of bruises and lacerations. Her damp hair matted around her head.

Sheriff Stilinski reached out a trembling hair and closed the staring rust-colored eyes, frozen forever in fear. He knew no matter the coroner's strength of skill or the undertaker's adept arts, they would never be able to restore to Santiago any semblance of her former loveliness.

"Agent Pierce found her this morning," Parrish said. "They were supposed to meet in the lobby, and when she didn't show up he came to check on her. He could smell the blood, he said, and he kicked in the door. I can't imagine finding your partner is such a state." He shuddered. "Why kill Santiago? Her murder doesn't fit the profile. The other murders weren't this...messy and violent. This seems almost personal. And Agent Santiago is the first female victim. Is it possible we're looking for two killers? Maybe a copy-cat?"

Why would the vampire target Santiago? What did she have to do with that case? She was here about Landry, keeping an eye on Stiles; she wasn't involved in the recent string of murders. Unless... "Marshall."

"What was that, Sheriff?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking out loud."

Parrish ran a nervous hand through his luxurious dirty-blond mane. "There's something else you need to see." The deputy turned toward the bathroom, and held the door open for the sheriff with one hand. A soggy towel lay discarded on the floor; toiletries were scattered along the counter and sink. The room was almost spotless of blood. Santiago's attacker must have surprised her as she stepped out of the bathroom after a final refreshing shower.

Parrish pointed to the long rectangular mirror hanging over the sink. This indication was needless; the sheriff had noticed it immediately. Spelled out clumsily in the crimson paint of Santiago's lifeless corpse was a single dripping word: STILES.


	10. Chapter 10: Ammunition

**Chapter Ten: Ammunition**

When Stiles awoke the next morning, his father was already gone. Part of him felt relieved, thankful he wouldn't have to evade his father's questions or see the familiar post-drunk guilt in his eyes. Stiles grabbed a glass of orange juice and a leftover slice of meat-lovers' pizza – no hot, balanced, and nutritional breakfast for him today – and headed back upstairs to shower and change.

He took his time, quieting himself and allowing the warm water to pour over every inch and crevice of his body. He wished he could wash away the memories and nightmares, all his mistakes and sins, as easily as he could the dirt and oil on his skin.

When he was ready, Stiles grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter, noticing a slip of paper tucked under an empty glass. He recognized in the blue ink his father's sprawling handwriting. The note was brief and vague:

Police emergency.

Be careful today.

Keep your cell on at all times.

We need to talk later.

~Dad

The words seemed innocent and common enough, but they filled Stiles with a sense of dread and urgency he couldn't quell or explain. What did his father need to speak to him about? Could he have guessed that Stiles was keeping something from him? Was it in any way connected to this mysterious 'police emergency' his father had failed to elaborate on? Would John insist they sit down and have a long serious discussion about last night, his father's voice ridden with regret and remorse as he explained he hadn't gone off the wagon, but merely fallen into a moment of weakness; his self-reproach guiding his conscience to clear the air with his son, highlighting all the evils of alcohol, hoping Stiles wouldn't make the same choices he had? Stiles cringed just thinking about the awkwardness of such a conversation.

He didn't have time to worry about it. If the time came to talk, they would talk. He was already late to meet the pack at Deaton's to begin their preparations. First they would need to amass a small weapons arsenal, then they would figure out a game-plan. Every moment he dawdled was a moment wasted in the hunt for vamp-Marshall.

When Stiles had pictured how the morning would play out, he had imagined a cool montage, like they show in all the best creature features. A group of mismatched and eclectic teenagers and their mentor, the unlikely heroes called upon to save their fair city from supernatural evil. Closeups of determined faces decorated with war-paint, red lipstick, and scowls; wide-shots of weapons being loaded into belts and pockets, fingers running along blades and caressing stakes; cutting away to cool images of them congregated over a map of Beacon Hills and walking down an alley in a horizontal line, strutting and unconcerned like total badasses. An awesome fight song overlaying the entire sequence to pump them up.

It was nothing like that. While Stiles, Malia, and Deaton sat down to the arduous task of whittling stakes from thick branches of mountain ash – a chore that strangely reminded him of hillbillies on back porches, pieces of straw and cigars shoved between their teeth, husking ears of corn – Lydia volunteered herself for blade collection and acquiring ample amounts of kerosene. She was the best person for this job because, and she quoted, "she knew a guy and he owed her a big favor."

This left Scott and Kira free for the more difficult and unpleasant job of obtaining a dead man's blood. Deaton supplied them with a handful of needles, and the pair headed for Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. Scott prayed his mother would grant him this one further request, especially if she knew it would help them catch the monster that had killed Danny.

Stiles wished he was the one accompanying Scott. He hated sitting in one place for too long, and the last thing he thought they should do was give the hyperactive, fidgety kid sharp objects. But Scott felt Kira, with her lovely face and calm demeanor, was better suited to soothe Melissa's anxieties so she would help.

So here Stiles was, stuck in a dimly lit room, bored out of his freakin' mind. Not only was whittling stakes monotonous and tedious, it was harder than he'd expected. The knife needed to be positioned just right, with just enough pressure applied to shave pieces off in one fluid motion without gouging the wood, taking off too much and ruining the point, or whittling it down to a near-stub. He overcompensated to avoid this error, being careful not to whittle the wood down too far, and ended up taking more time to complete one stake than Malia and Deaton required to finish three.

Stiles also had the unfortunate quality of being accident-prone. He nicked his fingers several times. Then the knife slipped from his grasp, and opened up a deep gash on the hand holding the stake. Blood instantly trickled out. "Ow!" He swore and promptly shoved the injured thumb into his mouth. He sucked at the blood. It tasted like dirty pennies, and he wondered how vampires could ever enjoy such a disgusting flavor.

"Oh, poor baby," Malia teased, taking his hand from his mouth and turning it over within her smaller ones. She examined the wound. "You don't need stitches," she declared. "It should stop bleeding soon. You'll live – but I'll kiss it better just in case." She pressed her lips to the offended digit. Stiles could feel the remaining traces of pain evaporating under her touch. She could tell her little peck had made him feel better, and she soon had his finger in her mouth, her tongue cleaning the wound. His eyes widened. Stakes were forgotten.

Deaton pointed his knife in their direction. "Get back to work," he ordered, interrupting what was quickly evolving into a sensual moment.

Lydia arrived shortly thereafter, carrying in large, red, 5gallon gas cans. One after another she toted them in, the flammable liquid sloshing inside. When Stiles recovered from his initial shock – impressed that she _had_ been able to procure so much gas, so quickly, and for nothing – he rushed to help her.

Unfortunately, obtaining decent blades had proved tougher than she had initially anticipated. Swords and cutlasses were scarce in Beacon Hills, and the man at the local pawn shop had eyed her suspiciously when she'd asked where she could find knifes larger than the typical switchblades he had in stock. (If the purpose of the blades was decapitation, she reasoned, they'd need something longer than a few inches.) Logically, she elucidated, Kira was probably their best bet for the actual beheading, being the owner and wielder of a katana, and the most natural swordsman among them. Scott and Malia had their were-canine capabilities and thus were best equipped for subduing and, she wrinkled her nose, _dismembering_ the vampire. Hence, she had focused primarily on arming Stiles and herself.

For Stiles, Lydia had managed to scrounge up a machete. Her father, she claimed, had brought it back from a trip to South America. How he had managed to make it through US Customs she didn't say.

"What about you?" Stiles asked, accepting the offered machete.

From her bag, Lydia produced a silver dagger. Its hilt was black, inlayed with gold and pearl. An iridescent handle. A beautiful instrument of death – like the handler herself. Engraved on the blade itself was a fine script in Latin characters. "It's an archaic form of French; a promise of protection," she explained, when Stiles asked about it. Her eyes misted. "Allison gave this to me. It belonged to the Argents of old. She wanted me to be able to defend myself when she wasn't around." She clutched the dagger to herself, her last connection to her dearly departed best friend. "'Hunters protect those who cannot protect themselves,'" she recited Chris Argent's familiar motto. "Even now she's looking after me, trying to protect me."

Stiles looked away. The mention of Allison's name stung; the pain in Lydia's eyes further convicting him of his guilt. He focused his attention on the machete in his hands, broad and weighty. And sharp. He tested it out and inevitably dropped it, nearly slicing off his toes. Malia quickly confiscated it and set it aside. "Let's just set this right here for now."

When Scott and Kira finally returned mid-afternoon, the quartet had fashioned two dozen stakes between them. Scott held up a syringe and smiled triumphantly. Convincing his mother to let them back into the morgue hadn't been easy, especially as she was currently swamped that day with incoming and outgoing patients. When she heard what they wanted, she was appalled and hesitant, but when he explained this was the only way they would be able to stop the vampire, she relented. Her one condition: they wait and remain upstairs, while she went to the morgue herself. Her professional skills and experience drawing blood would, she contended (and who can argue with a mother's logic?), allow her to quickly and efficiently take what they needed, without leaving any telltale holes in the skin. She brought them back several syringes full of blood from the longest deceased corpse they had. She hope that because the man had been dead for a while, it would be especially potent and render the vampire powerless.

Melissa had other reasons for refusing to allow them to accompany her downstairs. Showing Scott and Stiles the corpses of Lewis and Perez had been one thing, since they were complete strangers, two statistics in a steadily increasing line of victims. Now, however, two of Scott's classmates – Trigg and Danny – were laid out in the basement, as well as a horrifically mutilated woman she hadn't wanted him to see. She knew _she'd_ be having nightmares for weeks.

When the paramedics had brought the female in, Melissa's professionalism had cracked. She had been unnerved by the inhuman mess before her, and had surrendered the meagre contents of her stomach to the toilet in the staff bathroom. A pale Sheriff Stilinksi had arrived shortly after, and asked her questions and her "medical opinion." He had seemed troubled and shaken, distracted; even quieter and gruffer than he usually was. She mentioned the sheriff's appearance to Scott, only because she was curious and concerned, and wondered if perhaps he had heard anything from Stiles.

Scott relayed this information to Stiles, and asked him if he knew anything. Stiles shrugged. His only conclusion was that this must be the 'police emergency' his father had referred to in his note.

Their weapon preparations concluded, the pack discussed – argued – the best way to catch the vampire. How could they track it? Did they need to wait for nightfall, when they knew he would be easier to find, but also stronger? Or should they stumble around in the daylight, hoping they would come across some trace of him?

They mapped out the crime-scenes, trying to find a pattern, if any existed, or at least create a set radius in which they could situate themselves. The two farthest crime-scenes were more than 20 miles apart. It was a lot of space to cover; they didn't have that kind of time. They needed to find Marshall's lair – where he hid himself during the day; slinking back to it at dawn, belly full of his most recent kill.

Deaton explained a vampire's chosen lair depended largely on the vampire itself. Traits and desires of the human the vampire had been _before_ they had turned were still latent within them, and would dictate things like location. For example, he expounded, a materialistic or financially motivated person might, as a vampire, set-up their lair in a luxury penthouse or mansion. (Money was hardly a problem when you were a cold-blooded killer destined to live forever.) A vampire who had favored seclusion and isolation as a human might hide themselves in a cabin or cave. The possibilities were endless.

"We need to know more about this Marshall Landry," Deaton said, turning to Stiles. They all looked at him expectantly.

A loud rushing sound suddenly filled Stiles' ears. He was acutely aware of their ten eyes fixed upon him, watching, waiting. Spotlights trained on his every move. Questioning him about Marshall, like a police interrogation. Dragging into the open experiences he wanted to conceal, just like he had feared they would.

It was too much pressure, too much to ask of him. He could feel the panic ballooning in his lungs, constricting his airways. They continued to watch him, demanding of him what he could not give. _Put on a show, freak boy. Tell us all your darkest secrets. This is your fault, Stiles. It's always your fault. This man is after you. All those men are dead because of you._

Blue eyes traveling over his body, accompanied by rough hands. _You're such a nice looking kid._

"Stiles?" Scott's lips were moving, but Stiles couldn't make out the words. His voice sounded faraway, speaking from across a great divide. Like when they were kids and they had tied two soup cans together with string, a makeshift telephone they had seen on TV and attempted to replicate, to see if it would work. Scott's voice muffled within the confines of a tin can, unable to make it across the string binding them together. The whooshing in Stiles' ears increased, deafening, bringing with it that silky voice.

 _Put your hands behind your back. Don't try my patience, son._ No. He wasn't that man's son. He wasn't anything to that man. He didn't know him; didn't want to know anything about him. He wanted to shout, scream, "Leave me alone!" Stiles clamped his hands over his ears, pushing as hard as he could. The others watched him with increasing alarm. Scott stepped forward and reached out for him.

 _Maybe I'm not making my intentions clear._

Stiles backed away and closed his eyes. Thin, white fingers stretching out from the dark.

 _You'll like it I promise._

Stiles flinched and backed himself up against a wall. He slid down it, cowering at its base, trying to make himself as small as possible. Hide himself from that man's touch. Don't look and maybe the monster will disappear. Tears were pouring down his cheeks. "Stop. Please, stop," Stiles begged, his voice broken. "Don't. Please, don't."

"Stiles." Scott's hand tentatively touched his shoulder. Stiles flinched and slowly opened his eyes. He realized he was sitting on the floor, knees bent, like a frightened child. Scott was crouched before him; his face pinched in concern. "Are you okay?"

 _No,_ Stiles thought, _I'm going crazy. Again._ "Yeah. I'm fine. I don't know what happened." Post-traumatic stress disorder, his therapist's voice in the back of his head supplied.

"Maybe you should go home," Scott suggested.

"What? But how will you-?"

"We'll manage. How much sleep did you get last night?"

Stiles shrugged. If he answered that question truthfully, Scott would definitely send him home – to bed.

Scott saw right through him. "How much sleep have you gotten this _week_?" Stiles' continued silence was answer enough. "Sty, you need to go home and rest."

"But I-"

"I know you want to get this guy, but you won't be any help if you're not taking care of yourself. We got this. _Go home._ If anything happens, I'll call you."

"You're probably safest at home," Deaton added. "Out in the open, a vampire could snatch you right off the street. Enter a public establishment or a business with ease." He gestured around him. "You're not safe here, especially once the sun sets. But a vampire needs to be invited into your home. As long as you don't open the door to him, you're safe."

"That settles it. You're going home to rest while _we_ look for the vampire. I'll come by later to check on you."

"Scott-" Stiles wasn't sure how he felt about being left out of the hunt, and about all this mothering.

"Stiles, don't fight me on this."

Stiles glanced at the trio of girls, the freaked-out looks on their faces finally convincing him Scott was right. He couldn't function like this, let alone confront a vampire. These past few days, he'd mostly been operating on adrenalin and fear. If he didn't slow down, he'd burn out – and make himself an easier target.

"Okay," he agreed."

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

Of all the requests her son had ever made of her, this was by far the weirdest. Dead man's blood. She supposed she should be relieved that he would come to her for help, instead of trespassing through a local cemetery and digging up a coffin holding someone's dearly departed loved one. She was not, in principle, superstitious, but exhuming those poor souls already laid to rest was indisputably wrong and, if she was honest with herself, practically inviting curses and lifelong hauntings.

Melissa McCall had secured the necessary blood from a middle-aged corpse who had suffered a severe heart-attack. She felt no qualms drawing blood from said man because he had donated his body to the hospital for medical research purposes. What better life-saving purpose could he serve than stopping a vampire?

Melissa had tried to ignore the sheeted figure lying crookedly on a table in the center of the room, awaiting the coroner to come and piece her together. The newest arrival to the Beacon Hills morgue, and the first female to have entered it in some time. Melissa had by-passed the drawers holding Trigg and Danny without so much as a glance, hardening herself. It probably seemed heartless, she thought, to close herself off to the death that surrounded her, but if she didn't it would overwhelm her. She felt too deeply, and if she allowed herself to feel everything, she'd cease to function altogether.

Nearing the end of what had been a short, but no less tiring and stressful shift, doubt consumed her mind as to whether she had remembered to properly restore the cardiac arrest victim. She was sure she must have, but she couldn't recollect the act of having done so. It was much the same way her mother used to fret about whether she had left the oven on and had, during a family trip, turned the car around halfway to their destination to make certain that she had.

She did not want to be that person. But the uncertainty continued to nag at her. Finally she gave in and decided it was safer just to check. She waited until her shift ended, and she had grabbed her purse and donned a jacket over her scrubs, and then she made her away downstairs.

The basement was dark and quiet. The usual daytime subterranean workers – laundry cleaners and orderlies, coroners and janitors – had already clocked out for the day. Melissa entered the morgue; the air stagnant and static, enveloped in a dense and inescapable gloom. The dull lights flicked on overhead with a slight buzzing, making the room feel even more depressing. Melissa checked on the research body – once upon a time a Mr Victor Lowe – which was meant to be stored in a locker separate from the other corpses, waiting for a beloved someone to claim them from this sterile hell.

Melissa examined Lowe's arms, checking if the pinpricks from the needles were discernible. Thankfully, they were not. The needle holes would be less suspicious on a medical research body, but she still didn't want to risk being questioned by a doctor who couldn't explain where these additional marks had come from. Maybe, she wondered, this was what she had really come to check on – whether or not her "borrowing" of Lowe's blood would be detected and put her in danger of losing her job.

Melissa sighed and mentally reprimanded herself. She was just heading out the door when she heard it.

 _Clank. Clank. Clank._

A metallic knocking, as on a steel door. Someone asking for permission to enter. Or perhaps the pipes shifting and resettling. But no, there it was again, _Clank! Clank! Clank!_ Louder, more urgent. Melissa turned slowly on her heel, her eyes widening in terror as she realized where the sound was coming from. The refrigerator's middle-most drawer, but that was impossible. He was dead. She had watched him die, had heard the attending doctor declare a time of death not 30 hours ago.

Her heart stopped in her chest, and she gasped involuntarily. The knocking paused. "Mrs. McCall, is that you? Please, let me out."

Could it be? "Danny?" This couldn't be happening. She took a step forward and then retreated again. It was impossible. It had to be.

Yet, she remembered, this had happened to her before. A year ago, Jackson Whittemore had been declared dead and brought down here, only to have witnessed, with her own eyes, him being resurrected as some terrible scaly monster. If Danny was alive, she figured, he wasn't human.

Melissa backed slowly towards the door. No sound came from the drawer. "Mrs. McCall," he tried again, but there was a harshness in his voice, "I need you to let me out of here. It would be in your best interests if you helped me."

There was more beating against the steel drawer – arms and legs kicking and pounding. Melissa pulled her cell-phone from her purse. Scott was the first on her speed-dial. She connected the call as she backed towards the door, her eyes never leaving the drawer. She prayed to God this was all just a stressed-induced hallucination, but she knew it wasn't.

A fist punched through the steel, followed by another. A dark eye and part of a pale face stared out at her: a scene out of her worst nightmares. She could hear the line ringing on the other end. "I can smell you, Melissa. I know it's you."

"Danny? Y-you're alive?"

An arm emerged from the hole and dragged the drawer open. Danny sat up and smiled, his irises black as coal, white fangs gleaming in his wide mouth. "I wouldn't say 'alive.' But I'm awake – and I'm hungry."


	11. Chapter 11: Confrontations

**Chapter Eleven: Confrontations: Undead & Otherwise **

The sun was setting when the pack, sans Stiles, finally called it a day. They had had no luck tracking the vampire, despite revisiting all the crime-scenes. They couldn't get a good lead on his scent, finding it either overpowered their senses or seemed to end abruptly, vanishing into thin air. They had checked a few locations Deaton had suggested might be beneficial lairs for a vampire, but had found nothing. There were a hundred other places he could be.

They slunk back to Deaton's office feeling discouraged and defeated. He tried to encourage them, but they knew they were running out of time. They needed to find this creature _now,_ before he made his move on Stiles.

The question was: what should _their_ next move be?

"Maybe we need to lure it out," Kira suggested, her head buzzing with battle strategies her mother had been drilling into her head since the nogitsune.

"Lure it out how?"

"Well, we know what it wants, or I guess _who_ -"

"No," Scott barked, putting an abrupt end to any conversation of that kind. "We are not using Stiles as bait."

"I wasn't suggesting-"

"We're keeping Stiles as far away from this as possible."

"No one wants to see Stiles get hurt, Scott," Lydia said gently. "We care about him too. We're not going to do anything to jeopardize his safety, but maybe we're going about this the wrong way."

"There's nothing else we can do tonight. I'm going to his house to make sure he's okay." Scott turned abruptly, trying to contain his anger. It wasn't their fault, he had to remind himself. They didn't know how terrifying this was for Stiles; they didn't know just how monstrous the vampire hunting him was. They didn't understand where Stiles' earlier panic-induced illusion had come from.

The ringing of his phone caused him to pause. "Hey," he answered wearily. "Mom? Slow down. What's wrong? Okay. Stay there. We're coming!" Scott turned to the others, his plans to check on Stiles forgotten. "We've got to go! Mom's trapped with a vampire – and this time it's Danny!"

When Scott, Malia, and Kira arrived at the hospital, they used a rear emergency door leading to the basement, usually reserved for ambulances whose patients had died upon arrival. Shouts and bangs carried along the stillness of the corridor. "Mom!" Scott yelled, with no reply. "MOM!" They raced down the hallway. The noises suddenly stopped; Scott's frantic shouting the only sound. He burst through the morgue doors, finding it empty and quiet. "Mom!"

"Here." He almost didn't hear the reply, weak and strained from behind a wooden door. Scott opened the closet and dropped down beside his mother. Melissa McCall was propped against the back; she had attempted to hide herself behind cleaning supplies and medical equipment. A white sheet, splashed with blood, was wrapped around her torso. A scalpel was clutched tightly with both trembling hands. Blood trickled down the side of her face from a cut hidden beneath her curly hair. Bruises flowered the left side of her face; her eye was beginning to swell.

"Oh, god. Mom."

"I'm alright, Scott," she promised, swooning as he helped her to stand. "Just a bit dizzy." She put a hand to her head, and was surprised when it came away slick and wet.

"Where's Danny?"

"I don't know. One minute he was trying to break through the closet-" Melissa gestured at the door, and they noticed the scratch marks and dents in its surface, "but something must have distracted him."

"We need to find him!" Malia declared. "He may be able to lead us right to the Head vampire!"

Scott looked at his mother worriedly. "Don't worry, Scott. I'm fine," she comforted him. "You go after this guy." She gave him a frail smile. "What better place to be hurt than a hospital, right?" Melissa took a couple unsteady steps forward, and nearly fainted again. Scott wrapped an arm around her and steadied her. She leaned against him, wheezing from the effort. Scott stared at the girls apprehensively, torn between his duty to kill the vampire and his desire to protect his mother.

"I'll take care of her," Kira volunteered, putting Melissa's arm across her own shoulders, and shifting the woman's weight from Scott to herself. "I'll make sure she's okay, and then I'll join you as soon as I can. You need to catch Danny, before he hurts someone. Remember what Deaton said."

As they were rushing out of the veterinarian's office, Deaton had told Scott that young vampires were savable. As long as Danny's irises remained black, it meant he had yet to drink human blood, and therefore was not a full-fledged vampire. If the Head vampire could be killed before Danny drank blood, he should return to his human state. However, the hunger for blood was overpowering; if they had any hope of saving Danny, they would need to subdue him.

"What if his eyes aren't black?"

If a Head vampire was identified by his silver eyes, and a fledgling by his black ones, what color were the eyes of a plain old vampire? "They'll be red," Deaton replied gravely. If for werewolves, the bright scarlet color denoted leadership and strength, in vampires it signified only one thing: blood. "And you'll be forced to kill him."

Confident in and reassured by Kira's ability to care for his mother, Scott turned to Malia, his eyes flashing. "Let's go."

Scott was able to track Danny by sense of smell. He was familiar with Danny's human scent, traces of which still clung to him, despite the new addition of the horrific vampire smell that made Scott crazy. He and Malia followed it, keeping their eyes peeled for bleeding corpses, hoping against hope that Danny was somehow controlling himself.

The trail lead them further and further from the hospital, growing stronger. They pushed themselves harder, hoping they would soon overtake him. "Where is he going?" Malia wondered aloud. Scott inspected their surroundings – they had passed a MacDonald's at the last intersection and a disreputable park known for being a local drug hotspot at night. Up ahead he could see a 7-Eleven, the second neon "e" flickered on and off, changing the building from a convenience store to a Middle-Earth Fellowship sanctuary.

Just beyond that was a Motel 6. "I know where we are," Scott said. "I think Danny's looking for the Head." They crept up slowly, Scott leading the way to a side yard, where he and Stiles had rescued Danny only a few nights earlier. A tall, dark figure crouched over the earth, looking for something. His head snapped up when he heard them approach. A single bulb hung over an emergency exit illuminated half of his face. The snarling fangs, the pallor of his skin, and – thankfully – the midnight eyes sizing them up.

"Danny," Scott raised his hands in a sign of submission, shifting into his human form. "This isn't you. We're here to help you okay?"

"Help me?" Danny grinned. "I don't need your help, McCall. I feel _great._ In a city overrun by werewolves – and whatever the hell that pussy Jackson was – I'm finally powerful, strong. Unbeatable. But, man, am I _hungry."_

Danny lunged at them suddenly. Malia rolled away from his grasp, and Scott dodged to the left, but Danny's long nails swiped at him, cutting deep into his flesh. He howled in pain. He glanced down briefly at his wound. When he glanced up again, he had shifted. He charged at Danny, but the fledgling vampire easily leaped over him and kicked him, sending Scott sprawling to the ground. Malia growled and pounced on his back from behind, locking her arms around his neck and holding on with all her might. Danny bucked and scratched, attempting to yank her off, but she kept her grip. She clung to him as if her life depended on it – which it very much did. As Scott raised himself from the ground, the ribs Danny had cracked settling back into place, he dug a syringe from his pocket. Realizing what he was doing, Malia shoved a hand in Danny's face to distract and temporarily blind him.

Danny reached back and grabbed Malia from his back, tossing her at Scott like she was a rag doll. The two were-canines fell in a heap. The needle tumbled from Scott's grasp, and landed at the vampire's feet. Danny stood at his full height, looming over them. He stepped closer menacingly, the vial shattering under his bare foot. "Okay, now I'm _really_ pissed."

The canines untangled themselves, poising for attack; Danny's eyes glinted with murder. Scott barred his teeth and released a low growl. He could feel Malia at his side, her heart pounding with anger and adrenalin. Danny was beyond reasoning. They were going to have to take him down.

Suddenly, a hand appeared from the dark, jabbing the distracted Danny in the throat. He roared tremendously and pulled the needle from his neck. He spun around, his attention now focused on the stealthy Kira. Scott saw his chance. He tackled Danny to the ground, Malia right behind him. As he struggled beneath them, his strength already beginning to wane, the werecoyote stabbed his thigh with yet another syringe.

Danny was losing consciousness. "I'll get you for this, McCall," he threatened, and he sounded so much like Jackson, Scott couldn't help but laugh. "You're laughing now, but you won't find _Him_ as funny." Danny smirked. "Stiles is a dead man."

They held him down until they were sure he was out cold, then Scott stood and stretched. "Let's take him back to Deaton's; he can keep him sedated while we're out hunting. We need to find this vampire _tonight._ We don't have any other choice."

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

The minute Stiles arrived home that afternoon, he flopped onto the living room couch and fell asleep. As he drifted off, he was foggily surprised at how quickly sleep came, considering the long restless hours he had endured every night for weeks. But there was something reassuring and calming about the light that filtered through the blinds, and he realized just how exhausted he was. Maybe, he surmised, he needed to adapt a nocturnal schedule: awake at night, sleeping during the day, when he knew he was safe.

This was the last conscious thought on Stiles' mind before he dissolved into a deep and dreamless sleep, emphasized by his snoring.

Stiles awoke to the sound of the front door opening, and someone calling his name. Groggily Stiles sat up, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. The grey light that had seeped through the curtains was now dull and gloomy, the sun setting in the west. He checked the hands of the wall clock, and realized he had been asleep for hours.

"Stiles?" the voice asked again.

"In here, Dad."

His father appeared from the entryway. His face a mask of shadows and fatigue. His expression grim and hard. "Why haven't you been answering your phone?" he demanded.

Stiles yawned again and picked his cell off the coffee-table. He had 6 missed calls – all of them from his father. Not good. "It's on vibrate," Stiles admitted sheepishly. "I was asleep and didn't hear it ringing."

Surely the sheriff couldn't be angry at him when he'd finally gotten a few hours restful shut-eye. "I've been going near out of my mind trying to get hold of you! I thought..." John stopped mid-sentence and gazed distractedly at the space in front of him. Stiles could tell there was something going on.

"You thought what?" he pressed.

Sheriff Stilinski collapsed into his favorite lazy-boy chair and scrubbed his face with his hands. Instead of answering his son's question, he said, "Elana Santiago was murdered in her hotel room last night."

The color drained from Stiles' face. "W-what?"

"This morning Pierce called me. Someone – or something – killed Santiago. No, didn't just kill her, completely _slaughtered_ her." He allowed this information to sink in, watching closely the emotions that crossed Stiles' face. Then, he asked, "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"No?"

The sheriff sighed. "Santiago's hotel room was a bloody mess. I thought our resident vampire might be responsible, but then it didn't fit the profile. The vampire had so far only killed men, right? I still hadn't found the pattern, but Elana certainly didn't seem to fit into it. Maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe it was just a coincidence. What could a vampire possibly want with an FBI agent?"

Each word was careful and intentional. Dripped into Stiles' mind like drops of water in Chinese water torture. He could tell his father was driving at something, but he wasn't sure what. It could be a trap. He didn't want to be tricked into revealing anything his father didn't know. Stiles maintained his silence, and fidgeted on the couch.

Stiles' speechlessness irritated the sheriff, and soon his calm plan to wheedle the truth out of him was thrown out the window. John stood abruptly. "Goddamn it, Stiles! How am I supposed to protect you if you won't tell me the truth?"

"What are you-?"

"Marshall is the vampire!"

Stiles' astonishment, coupled with his lowered head, and inability to refuse the statement confirmed the sheriff's guess. Stilinski pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "The vampire is Marshall, and Marshall is after you, and what? You just weren't going to tell me? You were going to try and deal with this on your own?"

"I didn't want you to worry-"

"Worry? Of course I'm going to worry! I'm your father, Stiles! Some homicidal pervert is after my son; how else am I supposed to react? He's killed two of your classmates and an agent sent to protect you, but you thought you wouldn't clue me in? You'd let me keep believing these were separate cases? That you weren't the target of a deranged _blood-sucking vampire!?_ "

"Dad, please don't yell-"

"And instead of hearing all this from my own son, I see it _written in blood_ in some cruddy hotel room!"

"What?"

The sheriff's tirade came to a screeching halt. "Nothing. Forget I said anything."

"You can't just do that. You can't say-"

"Oh, so _now_ you want to be honest with each other?" Stiles bit back the remainder of his sentence, and Stilinski felt a stab of guilt. He sat next to Stiles on the sofa. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you like that." He rubbed his face again, the bristles of hair on his chin coarse against his palms. "Whoever killed Santiago wrote your name on the bathroom mirror in her blood. It was a hell of a way for me to find out this thing is after you. But you already knew that, didn't you?" Stiles stared at his hands in his lap. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to worry."

"Stiles, how many times do we have to go through this? Of course I'm going to worry about you, you're my son! But I need you to stop keeping things from me. I can't help if I don't know what's going on. Hey," the sheriff put his fingers under Stiles' chin and gently raised his head, so he was looking at him, "I know how you hate to worry people, but you can't handle this on your own. I wouldn't want you to, and I know your friends wouldn't either. It's okay to ask for help."

"I told Scott," Stiles admitted, "about Marshall, as soon as I figured out the correlation between all the victims is me."

Jealousy pricked at Sheriff Stilinski's heart. He couldn't help feeling hurt that Stiles would confide in Scott but not in him. Sure, he knew teenagers are more likely to spill their secrets to their friends, not their parents, but he wished he could be that person for Stiles. He hated knowing how much Stiles kept from him, maybe was still keeping from him. This was a psycho rapist-vampire they were talking about. He should have been the _first_ person Stiles told when he had discovered the pattern linking the murders. All the sheriff said was: "That's good. Scott can protect you."

"He will."

The sheriff shifted his weight awkwardly. "I still wish you would have told me."

"I didn't want-"

"To worry me, I know. I got it. But it would have been a lot better hearing about this from you. I know I don't know a lot about this supernatural stuff, but I would give my life to protect you. I'm the parent and you're the child. You don't need to worry about protecting me. I worry about protecting _you."_

Stiles didn't agree with this last statement, but he offered his father a weak smile. "Okay."

Sheriff Stilinski looked as though he were going to reach out for Stiles and pull him into a hug, but his cell-phone suddenly rang, ruining the moment. He answered gruffly, his frown deepening as the person on the other end delivered yet more bad news. The sheriff sighed and stood. "They found another one. A girl this time – a sophomore. Killed last night by the looks of it. I have to go. Will you be safe here?"

"Scott's coming over later," Stiles reassured his father. "He might spend the night. I don't know. Until then, as long as I don't invite any vampires into the house, I'm safe."

"Alright." Times like these the sheriff despised his job; hated when his duty called him away from his son, leaving him alone and vulnerable. He was relieved Stiles wouldn't be alone tonight, and that he'd have a werewolf looking out for him. _And yet,_ an inner voice berated him shamefully, _you should be the one home with your son tonight. Not Scott._

Stilinski shoved his hand into his back pocket, retrieved his worn wallet, and extracted a few rumpled bills. He laid them on the coffee-table in front of Stiles. "Why don't you buy yourselves some pizza? My treat."

"Thanks, Dad."

The sheriff watched him closely for a long moment, and if Stiles had been better at reading into people's eyes, he would have seen the unfathomable love and concern in those seafoam depths that didn't quite make it into his father's tired face and gruff body language. "Be careful tonight. Don't leave the house."

Stiles smiled. The line a repetitive chorus he had heard most of his life. "I will be. You be careful out there too." The sheriff nodded curtly and left.

Once he had gone, Stiles picked up the phone and ordered an extra-large deluxe pizza with extra everything and a couple 2L bottles of Pepsi. He had just settled down to watch a re-run of 'Project Runway' and wait for his food, when there was a knock at the door.


	12. Chapter 12: Pizza Delivery

**Chapter Twelve: Pizza Delivery**

The knocking persisted – louder.

Stiles rose from the couch and muted the television. "Hello?" he called. No reply. He tried to ignore the fact that this was how the most gruesome horror-movie scenes started. "It's probably just the pizza guy," he muttered to himself, though it was unlikely. He had ordered his pizza only five minutes earlier. Sure, the pizzeria prided itself on speed, guaranteeing delivery within thirty minutes or else the pizza was free. They were fast, but they weren't _that_ fast.

Stiles approached the door cautiously. Realizing the idiocy of opening the door unarmed, given his present situation, Stiles glanced around the entryway for a suitable weapon. His eyes fell on an old porcelain vase, empty of flowers. He seized it in his right hand and reached for the doorknob with his left. He turned it slowly. Opened the door and –

"Lydia!"

"Stiles." She raised her eyebrows and stepped around him into the house. She pressed her lips together in a line, exposing her dimples, when she noticed the vase. It was an expression of incredulity only Lydia Martin could accomplish. "What were you going to do with that?"

"I, uh," Stiles hastily set the vase down. He placed it too close to the edge and it tipped over, nearly crashing to the floor. He managed to catch it, and this time replaced it carefully. "Was going to defend myself?"

"What happened to the machete I gave you?"

"I, um, forget it at Deaton's," Stiles admitted sheepishly.

Lydia rolled her eyes, and threw her hands up in exasperation. What was the point of her equipping him with weapons if he was going to leave them laying around? "Honestly, Stiles, sometimes I wonder how you've managed to survive this long."

Stiles smiled. "Luck, I guess." He invited her into the living room, self-consciously clearing a few old newspapers off the coffee-table and re-arranging the couch cushions. Lydia sat down primly, ankles crossed, hands on her knees, fingers playing light tattoos on her skin. She studied the room. She had been in the Stilinski household before, but usually she just went up to Stiles' room. Here she could see a woman's touches – the lovely curtains and matching furniture, the fancy coasters and wall decorations – but she could also see how the space had suffered in the absence of that same woman: the stains on the table, the unwashed doilies, the faded curtains. Sometimes Lydia forgot it was just Stiles and his dad. She wondered if it was hard without his mother.

Stiles ran a hand through his hair, and stepped forward to sit beside her. He changed his mind, and settled instead in the easy-chair his father had vacated not half an hour ago. Lydia Martin was in his house, in his living room, and he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"I'm surprised you're here," he admitted after an extended awkward silence. He had expected Scott to come by later, but he hadn't supposed any of the others would check in on him.

"There was an emergency at the hospital," she revealed. "Danny rose from the dead and trapped Melissa McCall in the morgue."

Stiles' eyes widened. "What? Does that mean-"

"Yeah," Lydia nodded. "Danny's a vampire."

"I hope Melissa's okay." The woman had always been a maternal figure in his life, even before his own mother had died, and he didn't want anything bad to happen to her.

"I'm sure Scott can handle it. Deaton said as long as they can keep Danny from drinking human blood, he'll remain a fledgling, and he'll revert back if they can kill the Head. I mean 'when,' _when_ they kill the Head."

Stiles smiled at her attempt to reassure him, but he could tell she was just as worried as he was. "I wonder why Danny became a vampire and the other victims didn't." Lydia shrugged. "Unless," he speculated, a theory forming in his mind, "it was because the other victims were killed. Marshall drained them, but he didn't get the chance to finish the job with Danny. He bit him, and was in the process of drinking his blood, but Scott and I stopped him. It's all about the Bite. It injected some kind of vampire venom into Danny's system, and that's what stopped his heart." Stiles was mumbling, pieces of the vampire research he had read on the Internet coming back to him. The Bite had done its work in Danny, pumping through his veins, vampire poison transforming him into the undead. The other victims had died from their injuries and blood loss; there hadn't been time for the venom dripped from the vampire's fangs to pulse throughout their circulatory systems. That was the difference.

Stiles grimaced. Then that meant, once again, it was his fault. If he and Scott hadn't stopped Marshall, had arrived five seconds later, giving Marshall time to finish killing Danny, then Danny wouldn't be a vampire, wouldn't be damned for all eternity. What if by saving Danny's life, they had condemned him to a fate worse than death? If Danny killed someone, if he drank human blood, that was on their heads. They'd be responsible for all the deaths that followed, and they'd be forced to kill Danny. Danny would die anyway, but now he would take any number of lives with him.

They hadn't saved him at all.

"Stiles," Lydia said gently, leaning forward to place a warm hand on his knee, breaking him from his sorrowful reverie. "Scott _is_ going to get Danny, we're going to kill the Head, and then he'll be okay. He'll be human again." She gave him a small, lopsided smile, "And you'll be okay too."

Stiles nodded and wrapped his fingers around her hand, keeping it on his knee. She bent her fingers over his, and her smile stretched fondly. "Tell me what I missed."

Lydia filled him in on the futility of their search, minimizing the frustration and discouragement they had all felt. Scott had been heading over to the Stilinski household when his mother called him. "He wanted someone here with you, and I really can't do much against a vampire, so I came in his stead."

"You only came because Scott wanted you to?" Stiles couldn't keep the disappointment from creeping into his voice. Lydia felt the grip on her fingers loosen. She squeezed his hand tighter.

"No! I wanted to come see you, Stiles. I wanted to make sure you were okay." In a low voice, she added, "We've barely talked these last few weeks. I want to know how you're doing, how you're _really_ doing. It bothers me that one of my best friends might be hurting, and I don't know..."

A single tear slipped down Lydia's cheek. Stiles stood, and made her scoot over so he could sit beside her, their hips and sides touching. He used his thumb to wipe away the tear. She placed their clasped hands in her lap, and traced the fingers of her free hand over his knuckles.

The conversation they had both been avoiding began that easily.

Stiles tried to reassure Lydia that he was fine, that despite everything they had been through, he had suffered no permanent damage. The panic attacks had decreased, he claimed, and he no longer felt the darkness lurking in his mind. He lied to her again and again, trying to convince himself as much as he was her. He was okay, he repeated. He was trying to protect her with each lie, trying to calm the fears that never left her, trying to erase from her mind his voided self, but she could see through each falsehood. She could see how haunted and broken he was, how despite all his reassurances deep down he was terrified. His dishonesty bothered her, angered her. She was his friend – why couldn't he confide the truth in her? Why did he feel the need to keep his emotions from her?

She said as much to him. He needed to stop being stubborn, stop trying to take care of everyone, and let someone take care of him for a change.

"There are some things I just need to deal with on my own," Stiles told her, repeating the same sentiment he had used with Scott. It didn't work on her.

"That's bullshit!" Lydia snapped; her use of a swear word so uncharacteristic it left Stiles in speechless surprise. "Why won't you let anyone help you? Do you think we can't handle it, or maybe that _I_ can't handle it? That I'm too weak to help shoulder your fears? Or is this some misplaced sense of duty and loyalty? Some lame attempt to keep from 'burdening' everyone?"

Wow, she really could see right through him.

"I don't think you're weak." In fact, she was the strongest person he knew.

"Then what is it?"

Stiles tried to pull his hands away, but she held him fast. She wasn't going to let him shy away from this. "Talk to me," she begged.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because this is all my fault, Lydia! Everything is my fault. The nogitsune, Aiden and Allison dying."

"Stiles, none of that is-"

"Of course, it's my fault! I let him in, and look what happened! I wasn't strong enough to fight him, strong enough to keep him out. Chris and Mrs. Yukimura were ready to kill me! There was _evil_ inside me, using me! And now all this. Marshall's killing all these people to get to me. I should have let the Oni kill me. Or I should have been strong enough to kill myself. Then none of this would have happened. It would be better for everyone if I was dead."

Lydia slapped him. Hard. Stiles blinked in surprise.

"You idiot!" She thundered, tears falling freely from her eyes. "You _idiot!_ Why would you say that?"

Because it was how he felt. He deserved to die. He loved his life, his friends, his father, but he had hurt them all, had nearly destroyed them. They worried so much about him. If he was gone, they could stop worrying and get back to their lives. They could move on. What was he – weak and human – compared to hunters and werewolves? "If I had died, Aiden and Allison would still be alive. Danny would still have Ethan. Isaac would still be around. Chris wouldn't be childless. Scott wouldn't have lost his first love. You would have your best friend."

"You think I would want you to trade your life for Allison's? That everyone would be happier if you had died instead?" Stiles shrugged, as much of an affirmation as if he had nodded. "God, you really are an idiot!" Lydia sighed heavily. She was frustrated with him. What could she say, what words were enough, to show Stiles just how wrong – and stupid – he was. She couldn't believe that he felt this way, that he so little understood the value of his own life. She suddenly imagined her life without him in it, and it was a bleak and dark existence. The idea scared her. "Do you remember what you said to me after the lacrosse championship game?" she asked.

"I say a lot of things."

"I came to see you, and your face was bruised," she ran her fingers along his cheek, remembering the red injuries that had marred his skin, how broken and vulnerable he had looked. She never wanted to see his face like that again. "You chastised me for putting my life in danger. You told me if I died you would 'go out of your freaking mind.' You said death doesn't happen to a single person. It happens to everyone around them, all the people they leave behind. The loved ones left to figure out how to live their lives without me in it." She chuckled lightly. "Basically you admitted how much you care about me while also accusing me of being selfish and reckless.

"But you were right. Maybe we couldn't have saved Allison. Maybe the Universe sets out its decrees, and if she hadn't died that night at the end of a sword, maybe she would have gotten hit by a bus the next day. Maybe we could have saved her, and she would have lived to a ripe old age. I don't know. We'll never know. That's precisely the point – that there is _no_ point. It's irrelevant. She's gone, and you're here, and that's just the way it is. She's gone and it hurts – god, how it hurts – but I can't change that. I miss her everyday. I'm struggling to rearrange the pieces of my life, trying to go on without her. But if it had been you, Stiles, if I lost you..." Lydia's voice was low and husky with emotion. She looked up into his face, her gaze sad and loving. "If you died, Stiles, there would be no putting the pieces back together. My life would be in shambles. You're always here when I need you. You didn't think I was crazy when this banshee stuff started, and you've encouraged me to develop my abilities. You never give up on me. You take care of me. If you died, I'd be a mess. I'd spend the rest of my life thinking that the one person I need to get me through your death is you. The one person who could return some semblance of my former life would be gone. Who would love me and help me hold on to the real me, if you were gone? I need you." Lydia gave a final dry sob, her tears spent.

She suddenly felt exhausted, having just laid her heart bare for him. She rested her head on Stiles' shoulder and brought his hand to her mouth, kissing his knuckles. He tilted his head to lay it on hers, feeling the warmth of her scalp, the scent of her perfume and conditioner.

He had been thinking about Allison's death the wrong way. Part of him would always feel responsible, but he was foolish to think Scott and Lydia would rather he had died in her place. Secretly, he had believed this, that if they were given the choice to relive that night, they'd choose to save Allison over him. But it didn't work that way. His death would just be substituting one painful loss for another. And what then? Stiles was the one who figured things out, the one who picked up the pieces. He was the glue holding the pack together. He, though he may not have realized it, was their true collective anchor.

Stiles couldn't resist the urge to kiss the silky crown of Lydia's head. When she looked at him and smiled gently, her jade eyes deep and content, the desire to kiss her perfect rose-petal lips was almost overpowering. She was so close, so warm. He remembered how she tasted, how soft her lips. She had kissed him before to stop his panic attack.

But that had meant nothing – at least, not for her.

He wanted their first real kiss to be special. The time wasn't right. If he kissed her now, he might scare her away or, worse yet, might hear those dreaded words, 'I don't think of you that way.' He still had time; his ten year plan to win her heart nowhere near complete. Their time would come, and when it did, their kiss would be wonderful and passionate and full of mutual love. She'd want him just as much as he wanted her.

They sat in a cozy and pleasant silence, enjoying each other's presence. There were a hundred things Stiles wanted to say, but he had an annoying habit of saying the wrong thing, so he remained quiet for as long as he could. Finally, he asked, "Do you want something to drink?"

Lydia yawned delicately. "Coffee?"

"One cup of java, coming right up." Stiles reluctantly pulled himself away, and stood up to perform his role as a decent host. He heard her unmute the television and flick through the channels as he went into the kitchen. Yeah, the moment was _definitely_ over.

Stiles had seen his father make coffee a million times, and yet he wasn't actually sure how to do it. He wasn't allowed to drink it, by decree of the sheriff, who believed ADHD and high-concentrations of caffeine didn't mix, and so had never made it himself. He forgot to change the filter his father had used that morning, scooped in way too many grounds for the small amount of water he added, and when he switched the percolator on and wondered why it wasn't brewing, realized he had forgotten to plug it in.

Finally the machine gave a great hiss and started to perk. He searched the cupboards for their least ugly and least chipped mug, settling finally on a cool New York design. He didn't know where it had come from, considering no one in his family had ever been there, but he knew Lydia had visited the city and might like it.

" _Stiles_."

"What?" he asked loudly.

"What 'what'?" Lydia's voice carried to him from the living room over the noise of a crime show.

"You said my name!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Huh." _Weird._ The percolator hissed and Stiles decided he had imagined the sound of his name. The sizzle of the water heating up seemed to resemble the pronunciation: _ssssttt iiilllleeeesss_. "Ha." He'd probably always hear it now, every time his father made coffee. Maybe he could claim it as a sign to prove to his father he should finally be allowed to regularly consume caffeine. "Do you want anything to eat?

"No, thank you."

"I ordered a pizza over an hour ago," he complained, "and it's late!" To appease his growling stomach, Stiles munched on chocolate-chip cookies while he waited for the coffee to finish. When it was ready, he poured a thick, steaming stream into the mug. He wondered if it was supposed to smell quite that strong. That wasn't how it smelled when his father drank it.

" _Stiiiiles."_ His name was louder this time, the syllables drawn out. The percolator was switched off and cooling down.

"Did you say something?" he called to her.

"No."

It was official: he was going crazy. "Milk and sugar?"

"No milk. Just sugar, please."

"Okay." He almost tacked on the word, 'hon.' The endearment right on the tip of his tongue. He smiled to himself. The way they were yelling back and forth to one another reminded him of married couples, of the way his mother would be washing dishes and ask his father if he wanted a beer while he relaxed in front of the television. One of those cute everyday exchanges between people who loved each other.

He did not share this thought with Lydia. He added the requested sugar from the little bowl on the counter, and curled his fingers around the handle, careful not to burn himself.

"Stiles." Shrewd and insistent. A male voice. Decidedly _not_ Lydia. "Let me in, Stiles."

 _No!_ The mug plummeted to the floor, shattering and scattering ceramic pieces. _No, it can't be._ Stiles was stunned, a deer in headlights. _This can't be happening. It's not possible._ The coffee seeped along the tile and toward his feet. His pain receptors kicking in, Stiles' daze was broken. He swore vehemently and jumped out of the scalding puddle.

"Are you alright?" Lydia asked, appearing in the archway, as Stiles peeled off his soggy socks.

"Yeah. Fine."

Lydia noticed the pool of brown liquid and retrieved paper towels. She stooped down and began to sop up the mess. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"No. I'm okay." _Physically, anyway._ Stiles collected the ceramic shards in his hand. Oh well, it was a dumb mug anyways. He'd actually visit New York someday and bring his father home a new one. As they were cleaning up, someone hammered impatiently on the front door. "Geez. Keep your pants on! Can you get that?" he requested of Lydia.

She sighed and went to answer it, grumbling under her breath about boys and klutzes and being treated like a maid. She opened the door a crack, peeked out, and then opened it wider. Matteo Venturini stood half in shadow, holding a pizza box loftily in one hand. He was dressed in dark jeans and an AC/DC shirt, the short sleeves exposing a tattoo of a skull smoking a cigarette on his right arm. Pulled low over his brow was a Joe's Pizza baseball cap spattered with tomato-sauce.

"Hey, Sexy." Matteo grinned. "Fancy meeting you here."

Lydia's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Stiles, your pizza is here!"

"That pizza is free!" Stiles declared, appearing from the kitchen. "I mean I could understand being five minutes late but, _dude,_ this is ridiculous! You are way beyond late!" Stiles accepted the pie. "And you forgot my soda! Typical. Don't expect a tip."

Matteo shrugged and smirked. Clearly he didn't care about customer satisfaction. He ogled Lydia and winked flirtatiously. "How about you, Beautiful? Any tips?"

"Yeah. Go take a cold shower. You could use it."

"Ouch. Feisty. Don't worry, Mama. I like my ladies fierce."

"Ew. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little."

"Is there anything you want, Matteo?" Stiles demanded, glaring at the delivery boy. What on earth was he still doing here? "Don't you have a job to get back to? I'm not paying for this pizza."

"Can I use your bathroom? I have like six other deliveries to make, and my bladder is going to explode."

Stiles reluctantly assented, welcoming him in with a half-wave, as he turned back towards the kitchen. "It's upstairs. Since when did you start delivering anyway, I thought-"

"No!" Lydia realized a split-second too late that those weren't sauce stains on Matteo's hat. He smirked, seeing the awareness on her face. As he stepped over the threshold, she caught a glimpse of his blood red eyes.

Stiles whirled around, dropping the pizza. Lydia attempted to slam the door, but Matteo caught it in one hand, and jerked it open again. Lydia fell backwards from the force. "Stiles, run!" she shouted. Stiles and Matteo locked eyes, and then they simultaneously made a move for Lydia. Matteo moved so quickly neither of them saw him. He dragged Lydia up and pushed her against him, his fingernails digging into her soft flesh. She winced, feeling the bruises already forming.

"Let her go!"

Matteo laughed and pressed his nose to the side of her neck, just above her collarbone. He sniffed deeply. "She smells as sexy as she looks. I bet she tastes even better." Matteo barred his fangs, hovering just over Lydia's skin. She could feel the prick of his teeth.

Stiles scanned the room, wildly searching for a potential weapon.

"Now, now, Stiles. There's no reason to do this the hard way." A man appeared in the doorway. He was exactly as Stiles remembered. A figure stepped straight from his nightmares into life. The man's skin was pale and smooth, his glossy dark hair combed to one side. His arched eyebrows smirked over bright silver eyes, considering him mildly over a wide and easy smile. He was dressed sharply in black trousers and a white twill button-up shirt tucked into the waistband. He wore an open black leather trench-coat, his hands shoved into the pockets. He leaned casually against the door-frame.

Being undead sure was working out well for him.

"Miss me, Stiles?"

"Marshall."

"It's been a long time."

Lydia stared at the man in the doorway. The villain who had tried to hurt Stiles two years ago. He didn't look dangerous. He looked, well, _hot._ Friendly. The kind of stranger you stop on the street to ask for the time. Appearances, it seemed, could be deceiving. It was no wonder Stiles had fallen into his clutches.

"Let's work this out. Let me in."

"No."

"Let me rephrase that: you do what I say, or Matteo here will kill your pretty little girlfriend." Matteo tightened his grip on Lydia, and she gasped in pain.

"You're hurting her!"

"You can help her, Stiles. Let me in."

Stiles hesitated. Not because he was afraid or reluctant to sacrifice himself for Lydia – he would give his life for her in a heartbeat – but because this situation was disturbingly familiar. A girl he cared about in danger. An evil spirit begging entrance. He couldn't make the same mistake again. People would die. But what could he do? If he didn't agree, Lydia would die.

"Seems I'm not welcome here. Go ahead and kill her, Matteo. Make sure Stiles has a good seat," Marshall commanded this nonchalantly, deciding someone's death as easy for him as ordering drinks at a bar. "Try not to make such a mess this time. Blood's a pain to get out of carpet. And we don't want the poor sheriff left with the clean-up." Matteo grinned.

"Wait!"

"Are you ready to let me in, Stiles?"

"No." _Never again_. If he invited Marshall into his house, his father would no longer be safe. Marshall could return at any time and dispatch the sheriff in his sleep. He couldn't leave his father unprotected. "I'll come out to you. You let Lydia go, and I'll come to you. No fight."

Marshall smiled indulgently. "Ah, smart boy."

"Stiles, no! You can't!" Matteo struck Lydia, and she whimpered. Stiles gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists. Marshall _tsk_ ed.

"Now, now, Matteo. Play nice. Stiles and I are making a deal." He stepped back and bowed gallantly. "Seems our little prince has grown into quite the knight in shining armor. Come out, my boy, and we'll let the fair maiden live. The damsel in distress saved by our handsome hero. How romantic." Marshall straightened and beckoned for Stiles to join him on the front step. The boy stepped forward, glancing around and assessing his options one final time. Matteo held Lydia tightly.

He had to do this. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he passed her. Famous last words to the girl he loved.

Stiles stepped over the threshold, the cool night air biting at his bare arms and feet. Marshall grinned and assessed him, looking him over like an art appraiser does a sculpture. "You look good." He stroked the side of Stiles' face. The boy shivered under his touch, but did not pull away. He glared at Marshall defiantly. "If it's possible, you're even more beautiful than the last time we met. Hmm, braver too, it seems. You've done some growing up over these last couple years. The boy who escaped." Marshall looked at Matteo over Stiles' shoulder; his smile disappeared, his face frighteningly expressionless. "Kill her."

"No!"

Marshall grabbed Stiles and threw him over his shoulder as though he weighed nothing. Stiles struggled against him, but Marshall's arm was as heavy as an anchor, holding him down. The vampire launched them into the dark night, leaping from one rooftop to the next.

Stiles' house shrunk farther and farther away. The last thing Stiles heard was Lydia's bloodcurdling scream.

* * *

 ** _A nice long chapter to satisfy my Stydia-loving heart. I struggled to keep their heartfelt conversation in-character, but I wanted to include it to demonstrate how deeply Stiles was affected by the nogitsune incident._**

 ** _Don't forget to leave a review, lovelies!_**


	13. Chapter 13: Lydia, Vampire Slayer

**Chapter Thirteen: Lydia, the Vampire Slayer**

Lydia screamed.

Whether in prediction of death – hers or Stiles' – or just plain terror was uncertain. She was terrified and angry and about to die, and opening her mouth wide, air rushing into her lungs preparing to be pushed out in a mighty wail, felt like the most natural reaction.

It was her loudest scream to date.

The windows rattled in their panes and the mirror in the front hall cracked. Her high-pitched shriek startled Matteo, piercing his supernatural hearing like blades in his eardrums. Reflexively, he released her in order to press his hands against his ears to block out the noise. Lydia saw her chance.

For someone in dire peril, Lydia's mind worked extraordinarily quickly. Matteo was standing between her and the doorway, but she knew she would be able to make it upstairs. As she turned, she noticed the floral vase Stiles had wielded earlier. She grabbed it, raised it high over her head, and brought it down, smashing it over Matteo's dense skull. Pretty porcelain shards rained down to the floor.

She didn't waste time looking to see what damage she had caused. She dodged, ran up the stairs, and into Stiles' room. She slammed the door, and did her best to barricade it, struggling under the weight of Stiles' dresser as she slid it across the floor. She knew it wouldn't keep Matteo out for long, but it might slow him down just long enough for her to think up an escape plan.

Lydia glanced around the room, searching desperately for a weapon. Anything she could use as a make-shift stake. There was nothing. Adrenalin was coursing through her system, giving her strength she otherwise wouldn't have been able to gather. She contemplated a Batman action figure on a shelf, but decided that even with the surge of epinephrine she wouldn't be able to muster the necessary force to pierce the ribcage with something that blunt.

She needed something sharp – like her dagger. Which was in her bag. In the living room. Downstairs.

"You little whore! I'm really going to enjoy this!"

Matteo was lunging at the bedroom door, ramming his rock-hard shoulder against it. With each hit, the wood splintered and cracked. If Lydia wanted to survive, she needed to come up with a strategy – fast. The safest choice would be to hide, to put as much distance between herself and the door as possible, but the safest option wasn't necessarily the _best_ option.

She couldn't climb out the window. There were no footholds, and if on the off-chance she _didn't_ fall to her death, she would likely break her neck, or at least a few bones, and then Matteo would be free to gorge on her blood as he pleased. If she could make it outside, he would catch her within minutes, maybe seconds. He had her scent, and he had speed. She could never outrun a vampire.

Lydia was going to have to kill him.

 _Think, Lydia! Think!_ She noticed a lamp on the desk. An idea came to her; it wasn't great, and it was dangerous, but she might be able to buy herself a distraction. A few seconds allowing her to reach her bag. She quickly unscrewed the bulb, smashed it under her heel, and picked up a single glass fragment. _You gotta do what you gotta do._ She took a deep breath and pressed a jagged corner against her palm.

Matteo finally broke through a small section and peered inside the room. She could see half his face and one ruby eye. "Lydia, come out and play!" It was a demented and frightening scene to rival _The Shining_. "When I imagined getting you in a bedroom, I didn't picture it belonging to another guy. A soon-to-be dead guy at that. It's kinda kinky." Lydia blanched. A pervert was bad enough; a vampire pervert was worse. "I thought I used to get horny before. You won't believe what bloodlust does to a person. That moment you first bite into a girl's neck, the sweet taste of her blood, watching the life leave her eyes." He shivered in anticipation of such ecstasy. "You're a self-righteous little tramp, but I promise you've never done anything like this before." He paused in his assault against the door and sniffed the air. "Is that blood I smell? I hope you didn't off yourself before the real fun starts."

The smell of her blood worked Matteo into a frenzy. He took a running leap and threw his entire body against the door. It burst under his weight, slivers flying everywhere. If she survived this, Lydia would have to buy Stiles a new one. Matteo swaggered into the room – an arrogant bastard with all the time in the world. He approached the bed, following her scent. A lump rested under the sheets. "Looks like I've finally gotten Lydia Martin to bed. I'm disappointed in you. Big girls should know hiding under the covers doesn't keep out the monsters." He ripped back the blankets. "What?" Several pillows were wet with Lydia's blood.

She knew he wouldn't have been able to resist.

From her position in the closet, Lydia pounced, armed with Stiles' aluminium baseball bat. She swung with all her might. She heard a nauseating _Crack!_ as the bat connected with the side of Matteo's skull, snapping his head around. A strike that hard would have torn the head right off any living mortal. Matteo put his hands up to his head and cracked his broken neck back into place.

Lydia ran from the room, still clutching the bat. It was heavy and reassuring in her hand. If she wasn't fighting for her life, she would have smiled, remembering how she had teased Stiles over his weapon of choice and how adamantly and fondly he had defended his bat.

Lydia raced down the stairs. Instead of heading out the door, she turned toward the living room. Matteo was right behind her. She could feel his shadow upon her. A few seconds, that was all she needed to reach her dagger. She could make it. _There!_ Her purse was tucked into corner of the couch, half-hidden behind a cushion. She dove for it.

Matteo's arms seized her around the waist and he tossed her. She hit the back of the couch, knocking the entire thing over backwards. The contents of her purse scattered across the floor. The air was knocked from her lungs and her vision swam. In the background, Lydia realized the television was still on – ominous, scary music drowned out by the beating of her own heart.

Lydia tried to sit up, but Matteo was on her. He pinned her down with little effort, his lean body as heavy as an elephant straddling her hips. His rancid breath filled her nostrils. From the corner of her eye, she could see her dagger a few feet away. Without drawing too much attention to what she was doing, Lydia reached for the handle, stretching her arm as far as possible, willing her fingers to lengthen themselves. She had to grab it before Matteo noticed, or she was dead. She was _so close_ , but it was just out of her reach.

Matteo grinned and gnashed his fangs in anticipation. He leaned over her, pressing the full length of his body against hers, one hand travelling from her hip to her breast to her neck. Every inch of her body was appalled by him. She resisted the urge to panic. If she lost focus now, she'd never escape. Matteo licked her neck playfully. "You have no idea how excited I am for this."

"Really?" she panted, glaring up at him defiantly. "You haven't shut up about it for the past several minutes."

Matteo laughed and sat up. He opened his mouth wide, preparing to swoop in for the Bite.

"Lydia!"

Matteo swivelled his head back, happily taking in the newcomers. "Must be my lucky day."

"Get away from her!" Scott growled, shifting into the wolf.

"Ooh, looks like Mr. High and Mighty Lacross Captain has a few secrets of his own. No wonder you went from being a complete zero to some kind of sports god. Here we all just assumed it was steroids."

While Matteo was distracted, Lydia wiggled underneath him, sliding a few inches to the left. She felt her fingertips brush the hilt of the dagger. _Yes!_ She used her index finger to slide the blade closer, her hand clasping around it.

Scott was focused on Lydia. Matteo turned his attention back to her, but she was ready. Summoning all her strength, Lydia plunged the knife into his chest. Thanks to her knowledge of anatomy (and the A+ in biology she'd received last term), she stabbed him directly in the heart, slipping the blade between his ribs and through his sternum, burying the blade up to the hilt in his rotting flesh.

Matteo shrieked. An unearthly sound that send a shiver up her spine. He clutched at his chest and then exploded, gory pieces of vampire flying in all directions. Lydia rubbed the back of her hand over her face and flicked off a chunk of Matteo onto the rug. "You always were an arrogant asshole, Venturini."

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

After awkwardly shoving Danny's tall frame into the trunk, folding him in half to make him fit, Malia jabbed him with another syringe to make extra certain he would remain unconscious. They drove to Deaton's veterinary clinic and laid the young vampire on the metal examining table. They strapped him down, though Deaton was confident that quantity of dead man's blood would keep a fledgling subdued for hours. Scott was still worried, so he left his employer with two of their syringes, which left them with only three in their fight against Marshall. They couldn't afford to miss.

"Maybe we should make another visit to the morgue?" Kira suggested.

"Or a graveyard."

"There isn't any time. You heard what Danny said. Marshall is making his move on Stiles tonight. We need to get to his house right away." There was an uneasiness growing inside Scott that he couldn't calm. He didn't believe in clairvoyance or psychic predictions, but he did believe in pack connections, in his own intuition as Alpha. Even as a kid, he always had a sense when something was wrong with Stiles. Call it whatever you want, but to Scott it was as normal a phenomenon as reading a newspaper in the morning. He and Stiles were connected in ways he couldn't explain, and right now his werewolfy Stiles-sense was tingling. His best friend was in trouble. He needed to get to the Stilinski house _now._

While they were still a mile off, Scott heard the scream. He would know that voice anywhere. _Lydia._ Her scream could only mean one thing. He shared a worried look with Kira, and she pressed the pedal to the floor.

The front door was wide open. Scott bolted out of the car before it had stopped moving and raced inside. He could smell blood. A man was holding a redheaded girl down on the living room floor. "Lydia!"

The man turned to face him: Matteo Venturini. His red eyes and sharp fangs revealing him as one of the undead. Scott couldn't say he was entirely surprised. The guy had had a cruel and violent streak within him ever since they were children. He'd probably been bitten while Marshall was killing his best friend, Trigg.

"Must be my lucky day." Matteo smiled, sizing up Malia and Kira at Scott's flanks.

"Get away from her!"

"Ooh, looks like Mr. High and Mighty Lacross Captain has a few secrets of his own," Matteo chuckled, less than surprised at Scott's transformation. "No wonder you went from being a complete zero to some kind of sports god. Here we all just assumed it was steroids."

Lydia was manoeuvring at weird angles beneath the vampire. Matteo looked down at her again, and Scott knew he wouldn't make it to her in time. Matteo snarled and bared his fangs, Scott leapt forward, just as Lydia rammed a blade through Matteo's heart. The vampire's death screech made Scott's blood run cold. He stopped mid-charge, eyes wide.

Matteo literally exploded.

They were all splattered with bits of him – none more than Lydia, who was disgustedly, but relatively calmly, wiping gore from her face. Scott ran to her and knelt at her side. "Are you alright?" He could see nasty bruises blooming along her arms and face; there was blood on her palm.

"I'm fine." She smiled weakly. Scott put his hand on her arm, taking her pain upon himself. He could feel how sore she was. She released a sigh as he eased her pain. "Don't worry. Nothing's broken. I was lucky."

"You weren't lucky," Scott returned her small smile. "You were badass. You just killed a vampire."

"Yeah, I guess I did." Lydia wasn't sure how she should feel. She had just killed one her classmates, but she felt neither relief nor pity nor anger. She was numb and oddly apathetic. It had either been him or her. There had been no other choice. He was already beyond their help. If she hadn't been the one to kill him, it probably would have been Scott. Matteo wasn't human any more – even if he had been a shitty person in the first place. It scared her that she didn't feel anything at all. The adrenalin continued to pulse through her. But with no reason for action, clarity and exhaustion began to set in, and she remembered in a sudden terrified rush. "Stiles!"

"What about Stiles, Lydia? Where is he? Where is Stiles!?" Lydia's eyes were wide and panicked, unseeing. The worst scenarios possible fought for dominance in Scott's head. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Lydia! Answer me!"

"I don't know!" she sobbed. "Marshall was here." She told them what had happened, leaving out her very personal conversation with Stiles that had occurred only moments before the attack. Scott helped her to stand and sat her on the couch. Kira fetched her a glass of water, which she accepted gratefully but did not drink, and Malia paced furiously in front of the coffee-table. Scott bandaged her hand as she spoke.

"You just let Marshall take Stiles?" Malia snapped, once she had finished her story.

"I didn't _let_ him do anything." Lydia seethed at the werecoyote's criticism. "There were two vampires. What was I supposed to do?"

"Instead of being such a goddamn damsel-in-distress all the time, you could have stepped in and _done_ something. Literally just about anything. Did you even try to stop Marshall from taking him?"

"Do you think I want that bastard to hurt Stiles? What could I have done? I don't have supernatural powers like the rest of you! I told him to run! I told him-" Lydia wept. It was her fault. It was all her fault. She should have done more to protect Stiles. She should have tried harder to stop Marshall. Now he was out there doing god-knows-what to her friend. "Damn you, Stiles," she whispered. Why did he have to be so loving and sacrificial all the time? Why couldn't he act like every other boy she knew and only worry about himself?

Scott put a hand on Lydia's shoulder and gave Malia a warning look. "This isn't anyone's fault. We all know how Stiles is. No one could have stopped him from giving himself up." Malia's anger completely dispersed and she looked down shamefully. Hadn't Stiles sacrificed himself for her in the same way?

"I'm sorry, Lydia," she muttered. Lydia accepted her apology with a nod, but it did nothing to alleviate the guilt raging inside her. Why was she always a victim? Why couldn't she have been the hero and saved Stiles?

"Okay, we need a plan to find Stiles," Scott said, turning the conversation back towards what they _could_ be doing, instead of fighting over what they couldn't change. His own guilt was eating at him – he'd sent his best friend home, left him alone and unprotected, had sent Lydia in his place without equipping her with dead man's blood or better weapons – but he repressed it. Time was ticking down.

"Maybe we can track him by scent."

Lydia shook her head. "Not unless you can fly."

"Maybe Stiles has his phone on him, and we can track it using GPS," Kira suggested. Scott took out his cell and dialled Stiles' number. It rang, and they all heard the answering jingly tones in the room. Malia glanced around, and pulled Stiles' cell out from between the cushions of the easy-chair.

"What do we know about this Marshall guy? Where would he take Stiles?"

"What we really need is Stiles to answer that question." They all nodded gravely at the truth of this statement. How were they going to find Stiles without Stiles' help?

"Wait!" Lydia sat up straighter, her face bright with an idea. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way. It's not about finding _Marshall_ at all. This has always been about _Stiles._ He's been hunting him, killing victims who had any kind of connection to him. This is about that night two years ago. Stiles was the one who got away. We need to stop thinking about Marshall himself and start focusing on where he would take Stiles. What place has meaning for Stiles?" Lydia looked to Scott. "I know Stiles only told us what we needed to know, but if we're going to have any chance of finding him, we need to know about his encounter with Marshall."

Scott shook his head. He couldn't do that, couldn't break Stiles' trust in that way. It had taken a lot for Stiles to confide the truth in him. He had seen how broken and haunted Stiles still was. He couldn't tell them the disgusting things that man had... "No." It wasn't his story to tell.

Lydia frowned. "This may be the only way to save him."

Scott considered what she had said, and a location occurred to him so clearly and completely he knew that had to be the place. "It's okay. I know where they are."

Somewhere in the cold night, Stiles awoke in the dark.


	14. Chapter 14: Origin Story

**Chapter Fourteen: Origin Story**

Stiles opened his eyes.

He couldn't remember having fallen asleep, and awoke disorientated and dazed, unsure of where he was. He blinked several times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness surrounding him. Black shapes loomed around him, tall and foreboding. Trees with gnarled branches reaching out to the cloudy sky. The ground was cold and damp against his bare feet. His arms were stretched above his head. He tried to pull them down, but they were held fast, coarse rope digging into his skin. He looked up and realized that he was secured to a high branch above his head.

Where the hell was he?

To his right, a blazing fire suddenly roared to life, illuminating the clearing. Stiles glanced around the wooded area, taking in the firepit and horizontal logs, the tree-line and the creek. There was something oddly familiar about the spot – and then he remembered.

He'd visited this spot a hundred times in his nightmares.

"Oh good, you're up," the voice was smooth and silky. Its owner appeared from around the campfire. His eyes two distant silver stars in the night. "Unfortunately, I had to knock you out. You would _not_ stop freaking out about that redheaded girl."

"Lydia. Her name is Lydia."

"Ah, a pretty name to suit a pretty girl. Come now, don't look at me like that. I had to have Matteo kill her. I couldn't leave any loose ends. Besides," Marshall smiled his fanged grin, "it's in my nature. Had to be done. You understand. You can never trust the snake. Just forget about her. It's _you_ I've come all this way for. Doesn't that make you feel special?"

"All this attention for me? I'm one lucky guy."

"Still as sarcastic and charming as ever I see. We'll see how long you can keep it up when I'm devouring your intestines." Marshal stepped closer, and Stiles tried not to shudder as the vampire pressed his nose to Stiles' neck and inhaled deeply. "You smell _incredible._ I haven't met another to rival your equal. Everything about you is absolutely tantalizing." He caressed Stiles' jaw. "Two years is a long time to sit rotting in a prison cell. I thought about you everyday, about your eyes, your face, these moles on your neck. Longing for the day we would be reunited and could finish what we had started. Oou," Marshall shivered in delight, "just thinking about it gives me chills."

"I'm glad someone is enjoying himself."

"You'll have fun too, I promise." Somehow Stiles doubted that. "But I'm getting ahead of myself. There's plenty of time. No need to rush pleasure." Marshall inhaled his scent again. "What's this?" The vampire's nose wrinkled as he continued to sniff down the length of Stiles' body, like some demented bloodhound. Stiles tried to take a step back and nearly tripped, but his suspended hands kept him in place. Marshall paused at Stiles' hips and shoved his hand into the boy's front left pocket. He withdrew a satin drawstring bag. Stiles had been carrying it around with him since he had found it, a kind of good luck charm – evil in the possession of the Good to ward off greater Evil.

Marshall dumped its contents into his hand and smiled at the locket. "I wondered where this had gotten to. I figured I must have lost it during one of my little soirees. How perfect that you were the one to find it."

" _You_ lost it?"

"What are you implying? That I couldn't own such an exquisite piece of jewelry?" Marshall held the necklace up to his collarbone. "No, I suppose you're right. Gold really isn't my color. Silver perhaps, or a nice platinum. Much better with my complexion."

"I thought the locket belonged to Countess Alissa von Montfort."

"Oh, it did. It did." Marshall smiled and circled around behind Stiles. His bonds kept him from being able to twist around and see behind him. Stiles felt Marshall push up against his back, and he squirmed away from him. "Seems someone did their homework. I'm impressed. You really are such a remarkable boy. What a shame, you've broken the clasp. This is an antique, you know." The locket was placed around Stiles' throat. Marshall's fingers ghosted against the back of his neck as he tied the chain together, keeping the necklace in place. Marshall returned to the front and admire his handiwork. "Very fine. It suits you beautifully. A token of eternal passion from the lover to his beloved. Poor dear, sweet Alissa. Eternity wasn't nearly long enough."

The locket was cold and heavy against Stiles' skin; he felt it was a noose choking him. He would have liked nothing better than to have reached down and ripped it from his neck. But he couldn't. He was Marshall's plaything, a slave to his games of dress-up and banter, a victim of his ceaseless stream of conversation. "You sure like the sound of your own voice," Stiles grumbled.

"Oh, hush," Marshall laughed. "You'd find this all rather dull if I wasn't delightfully talkative and only given over to my basest instincts. Besides, when you've been oppressed as much as I have, you learn the power that comes with speech. Come now, be honest," Marshall leaned toward him and Stiles couldn't keep himself from flinching. "Aren't you the least bit curious about Alissa?"

Stiles was curious, very much so, but he didn't want Marshall to know that. "What happened to her?"

Marshall smiled knowingly and ignored the question. Frustratingly, he changed the topic. "You should be proud of me, Stiles. I ascended from the rank of mere reprobate to super-villain!" He swung his arms wide in a grand gesture of his own magnificence.

"I hardly think 'reprobate' is the correct term," Stiles scoffed. Maybe if he could keep up this steady cynical commentary he could keep his utter terror and panic at bay.

"'Low-life scum?'"

"Offensive to the ranks of low-lives everywhere."

"Well then, what would you have called me, Stiles?"

"Psycho?"

"Very Norman Bates-esque, I love it. How'd you know I had a thing for Anthony Perkins? He has that wonderful boyish charm." Stiles groaned. God, he just couldn't win. "But that's not the point. You told me that super-villains always have tells: grotesque characteristics, ominous names, horrific back-stories. My name doesn't exactly strike fear in the hearts of men, but it's wonderfully ironic isn't it, _Marshall_ Landry, equal to the ranks of someone like, say, Sheriff Stilinksi."

"You're _nothing_ like my father."

"Ouch, that hurt."

"Leave him out of this."

"You know I can't do that, but we'll get back to him later. You're trying to change the subject. I wouldn't say I'm exactly a physically grotesque person either – no mutilated body parts or disfiguring scars. In fact, I look better than I ever have." Marshall turned on the spot, admiring his own physique. "But you know all about my terrible sob story. Daddy issues, abuse, that kind of thing." Marshall chuckled. "Any psychologist would point at my childhood and claim it as the source of my overwhelming desire to inflict pain for my own gratification. Nut jobs, the lot of them. Does power create the corrupted, or are the corrupted the ones with all the power? What do you think, Stiles?"

"I think you're insane."

"You're being too banal. Look at it more closely. Am I really any different than I was as a human – intrinsically, I mean? No, I'm not. Whatever's inside me hasn't changed, only grown stronger. And _now_ I have the power, those world-destroying capabilities to match the hunger inside. But like every classic comic-book villain, I have a back-story _and_ I have an origin story. That, my friend, is where Alissa comes in. Come, you must have something to say now."

Stiles knew Marshall was baiting him, that each word was an attempt to draw him into his sick, twisted little game. It wasn't just that Marshall liked hearing himself talk; this was all part of the fun for him. And Stiles had proven himself a worthy sparring partner. He realized, with a sinking and sickening feeling, that not only was he the one that got away, he was by far Marshall's favorite victim, his favorite conquest. Marshall was loving toying with him.

"Your silence doesn't fool me. I know you're interested. Two years ago, our villain was your average criminal, living on the run, driving across the country to find his kicks, preying on unsuspecting small-town boys, when he met our handsome hero and his slightly less attractive but no less brave and appealing father, the sheriff. Through their combined efforts and a couple suits from Washington, our charming and dashing rogue was thrown into prison, where he spent everyday getting his ass kicked by guys twice his size with the IQs of kumquats. Sometimes he was put into solitary confinement for his own safety, where he spent lonely after lonely hour yearning for our young hero.

"Most of his prison time was passed in the infirmary, where he met a lovely nurse named Alissa. She was beautiful; one of those rare beauties who was actually painful to look at. Inmates had been known to purposefully injured themselves in hopes of getting a look at her. Our villain came to her, bruised and broken, and she took pity on him. He reminded her of an old lover, she claimed. She patched him up and started to take care of him, smuggling him cigarettes and alcohol to use as currency, bringing him chocolate and magazines. She was able to get his work detail transferred, so he could help her out in the infirmary.

"But our villain started to notice she was a little strange. The death ratio on her shifts was astronomical, and when she wasn't looking he began checking the bodies and finds two little holes hidden in each of the victims. He wonders if maybe it's a fetish or some bizarre medical experiment. He asked her about her otherworldly silver eyes, and she claimed she had a thing for absurd contact lenses. He also noticed she was able to lift objects more than twice her own body weight. They become good friends, _very_ good friends, and he begged to know her secrets.

"She told him: she's a vampire, and she opened up for him this entire new world. If a few inmates died now and then, who cared, right? She had a steady, inconspicuous food source that allowed her to hide among humans in one place for a long time. When he demanded to be transformed, she denied him, claiming the time wasn't right. If she knew of our villain's crimes, she never mentioned them. But one night, a name of one of our villain's victims was circulated through the yard, and it got back to this particular gang leader, who happened to be the boy's second-cousin, or some ludicrous coincidence like that. So this thug and this minions beat our tragic villain within an inch of his life, and when he was taken to the infirmary, the staff – quite happily – wrote him off as dead. But he didn't die, because pretty Alissa saved him. She gave him the Bite, and when his heart stopped beating, he awoke to the gift of immortality.

"She taught him everything he needed to know. His first kill was the gangbanger, followed by several members of his crew. Fear of him spread among inmates and guards alike. Alissa warned him to slow down, or he'd draw attention to himself. He questioned why his eyes were red, while hers remained silver.

"Did you know, Stiles, there are two ways to become a Head vampire? The first is through a natural accumulation of power – when you're centuries old, you kill a few thousand people, and absorbing their life energy into yourself makes you stronger. That's how you get old vamps, like our Countess Alissa. Then there's the second method: you steal that power. You go to the source. You _behead_ the _Head._ " Marshall dissolved into a fit of snorts and chuckles. Stiles knew where this was going and felt the revulsion and fear in his stomach building.

"But she took pity on you!"

Marshall shrugged. "Her mistake. Sentimentality makes you weak. I chopped off her head with a dull scalpel. Wasn't easy. She fought back, of course, bitched and whined about my betrayal. But I've always been a one-man act. I wasn't ready to be a part of some ancient whore's coven. Getting through her spinal cord was the worst. It took a lot of force." Marshall mimed a hacking action, clasping his fists together and swinging his arms wide. Stiles cringed, imagining the scene. "The locket slid right off without a neck to hold it in place. I pocketed it, ripped her into pieces, and set her on fire. Then I bided my time and here we are. What do you think, Stiles? Sound like a good origin story?"

"You are one sick bastard."

"Aw, thank you," Marshall purred. "That locket may not have done anything for Alissa, but it sure is working for you. What's say we do something about that?" Marshall's hands started at Stiles' neck and worked their way downwards, slow and unhurried, savouring every touch of him. "My, feels like someone certainly has been doing some growing up."

Stiles refused to cry, refused to let his emotions get the better of him, but as his body protested Marshall's ice-cold touch, all his memories of that night crashed upon him. _Wake up, Stiles! Wake up!_ He wanted to scream, but he knew he wasn't dreaming. He attempted to twist away from Marshall, using his feet to uselessly kick out. His right foot connected with the vampire's leg, and it was like kicking a concrete wall. Pain shot through his foot, and he knew he had broken a couple toes.

Marshall _tsk_ ed him. "Don't go hurting yourself before the real fun starts. That's my job. But enough chatter, let's get this party started. I'm going to give you a choice, Stiles, so listen carefully. You can accept the Bite, and be my vampire bitch for all eternity-"

"I'll never join you."

"Let me finish. You can either become my devoted vampire flunkie, or you can die a slow, _agonizing_ death."

"I'd rather die," Stiles spat.

Marshall grinned. "I had a feeling you'd say that. I will dearly miss our playful banter, but I must admit I'm glad you chose the second option. It'll be a lot more fun." He stepped forward menacingly, then stopped. "Oh wait, I almost forgot."

A bright flood-light Stiles hadn't noticed was turned on and trained on him, temporarily blinding him. As his vision struggled to adjust, he heard Marshall fiddling with something just off to the side. In the bleary darkness, Stiles could make out a small blinking red light. He hoped that wasn't what he thought it was.

"What is that?"

"I thought we'd record our time together. A little home movie for Sheriff Daddy so that he doesn't miss a moment of this. Maybe I'll Fed-ex it along with your corpse right to his front door – whatever is left of you anyways. I'll make a copy for myself of course. Something to remember you by as the years pass." Stiles blanched. Marshall bent over the tripod, his face illuminated by the light from the LED screen. He adjusted the angle slightly. "The camera loves you. You're exceptionally photogenic. Good, I want to capture every last moment of this for your father. He'll love it. We're all set!" Marshall clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "I want him to witness every second of this. And when he's finished watching his little boy being utterly annihilated, when he's so haunted and shattered by the images, reduced to shadow of his former self, I'll swoop in and rip the broken, bloody heart right from his chest.

"But enough discussion. Let's get started!"


	15. Chapter 15: Whump

**WARNING! This chapter contains major and brutal Stiles whump! While not explicit, the events of this chapter are horrifying and violent. (What freakish recess of my brain did Marshall emerge from?) Go read some nice Stiles fluff after this. Poor bae! PLEASE DON'T HATE ME! (Secretly enjoy it, if you will.) **

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Whump**

"First, that shirt needs to go."

Before Stiles could react, Marshall grabbed a handful of fabric and ripped the t-shirt from his body. As the cotton ripped, something inside of Stiles tore along with it. Up until this point he had been managing his fear well, a voice in the back of his mind telling him everything would be okay. His best friend was a werewolf who would arrive any moment and save him. He had endured Marshall's drawn-out speeches, biding his time until rescue arrived. But with the violent removal of his shirt – which he was helpless to prevent – Stiles' faith faltered. He was at the complete mercy of this twisted vampire, and he had no power whatsoever to stop Marshall from touching him. He felt fifteen years old again – a child without experience, without strength. He couldn't possibly be the young man who had stared Death in the face and lived. The young man who had been possessed by centuries old evil.

He was just a boy. A scared little boy who wanted his daddy.

Stiles' torso responded to the sudden cold air. Marshall emitted a low whistle. "My, someone really _has_ grown up." His fingers traced along Stiles' ribcage and abs, lingering on the curve of his hips that disappeared into the top of his jeans. The first caress was gentle, intimate, and Stiles flashed back to that night two years ago. The urge to plead for Marshall to stop perched on the tip of his tongue, but Stiles refused to lower himself to begging. It hadn't worked then, and it wouldn't work now. If Marshall killed him and his father watched this video, Stiles didn't want to make the viewing experience any worse for his father by overlaying the scene with his pleas and cries.

Marshall's hands returned to his collarbone, and lightly touched the necklace. Stiles realized he was singing to himself, low under his breath. Stiles couldn't make out the words, but he recognized the tune of an 80's song about making love. It was disconcerting, to say the least: the absent-minded humming as Marshall took his time fondling his midsection.

Then, out of nowhere, Marshall drew back his right hand and swiped at Stiles' chest. His long fingernails slashed deep gashes into his skin. Stiles hissed in pain as his blood seeped out, hot and sticky. Marshall's left hand followed in similar fashion, slicing into Stiles' abdomen. Another swipe at his thigh ripped through jeans and flesh. A fourth down the length of his spine gouged his back – a substitute for the barbed whips of medieval floggings, designed to punish him for the mistake he made two years ago.

How could _one_ reckless decision have led to this?

"You look like you've been attacked by a mountain lion," Marshall laughed; this observation striking him as incredibly funny for reasons Stiles couldn't fathom. "Before I would have needed knives and more time to accomplish the same effect. Now I'm a regular Freddie Krueger, built-in blades and all." Marshall held up a hand. Stiles' blood dripped from his nails. He licked the length of his index finger. "God, you taste _amazing!_ " A monstrous look possessed Marshall's face. Demonic. _Hungry._ Stiles stepped back instinctively, tripping over his own feet.

He was finally seeing through the handsome, human facade to the creature within.

Marshall regained control of himself; he took a deep breath and relaxed. His features recovered their usual calm pleasantness and affability. He shook his head. "Got too excited there. I'm going to have to hold it together, or it'll be over too soon, and being the beast isn't nearly as fun as being the joker. Though it would certainly give a new twist to the story of Beauty and the Beast." Marshall ran his fingers along Stiles' cheek, smearing blood on his pale skin. The smell of his own blood made Stiles nauseous. "I'm going to leave your face intact as long as possible. I just love looking at it."

Stiles responded in the best way he could: he spit in Marshall's face.

Marshall chuckled and wiped the spittle from under his eye. "Unfortunately, saliva isn't among my many sexual fetishes. Good aim though." He contemplated the boy in front of him thoughtfully. "You know red really is your color. Very striking. I wonder if you look as good in purple."

Marshall's fist was a blur. The punch connected with Stiles' chest with all the force of a speeding bus. All the air was knocked from his lungs with a terrible _cruuunch!_ as his ribs splintered and cracked. Stiles gasped and wheezed, struggling to catch his breath.

Marshall's next hit landed square in his stomach. Stiles felt his intestines shift, and he couldn't prevent the vomit that spewed forth. His first reflex was to bend over, curl into the injury and shield himself from further harm. This was impossible; the best he could do was steel himself against the oncoming barrage.

Marshall landed another hit, shattering the left side of Stiles' collarbone. The force of the blow was astronomic. He was knocked backward, the rope digging into his wrists. His left shoulder was wrenched from its socket, and he cried out in pain. Stiles had dislocated his shoulder before, but it was nothing compared to this.

This was it: he was going to die. Slow and agonizing, just like Marshall had promised.

Stiles turned his head to the side and spat. His spit was slimy and bloody. Marshall tutted. "Oh my, that can't be good."

Stiles' suffering was so excruciating, it temporarily blinded him. He briefly subsided into unconsciousness. In the darkness, he could hear Marshall circling him. A predator stalking his prey. Stiles reduced to the role of the wounded gazelle in National Geographic videos, just waiting for the lion to sink its teeth into his jugular.

Marshall was at his right side. Stiles blinked away the shadows from his vision. He was scared to look down. His body was covered in blood and purple bruises so dark they were almost black. A grotesque road-map of abuse. Even if he somehow survived this, he was going to be left with hideous scars. Marshall bent down and inspected the odd angle of his second and third toes. "How about a matching set?"

"This little piggy went hitch-hiking. / This little piggy stayed home. / This little piggy lost his organs. / This little piggy had fun. / And this little piggy cried waa, waa, waa all the way to the morgue." With each line, Marshall held the corresponding toe and snapped it in his large hand. Stiles bit his lower lip to keep from crying out, refusing to give Marshall the satisfaction. By the littlest toe, Stiles had lost all feeling in his foot. His body was finally going into shock.

When his twisted little nursery rhyme was finished, Marshall looked up at him with a feigned pout. "Poo, you're no fun. Hardly even a whimper. Let's try something a bit bigger. I want a nice, bloodcurdling scream for Sheriff Daddy. Don't hold back on me now." Marshall grabbed Stiles' lower leg in both his hands and crushed.

Stiles could feel his tibia and fibula fracture and pop, before breaking completely. A jagged piece of bone pierced through skin. The intense trauma eradicated any beginnings of numbness and shock.

Stiles yowled.

"Well, Stiles, I don't know whether to be impressed or disappointed. That wasn't much of a scream. Bigger men than you have cried for mercy long before now. But even you won't be able to endure much more." Marshall temporarily ceased his assault to survey Stiles. His face was wet with tears, two streaks down his cheeks washed clean of dirt and blood. The tears had involuntarily trickled out during the worst of the pain. He wished he could wipe them away, wished he could maintain a strong and defiant attitude for his father's sake. But endurance was increasingly difficult with each minute that elapsed, each new ordeal. He could feel his resolve weakening. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. Stiles wondered hazily how much time had already passed, how far away rescue was, if his friends were coming at all. Soon he'd join Lydia in Death. The only time he would ever be truly united with her – in the grave.

Each passing second was an eternity in hell.

Agent Pierce, Stiles realized sadly, had been right. Marshall would have him yearning for the reprieve of death. Yet despite everything, despite the irreparable damage his death would inflict on his father, he didn't regret his decision to stay in Beacon Hills.

He knew Scott would kill this bastard, even if he failed to save Stiles.

Marshall leaned forward; he gently brushed his fingers down the teen's arm. "How about it, sweet-heart?" He crooned softly in Stiles' ear. The devil on his shoulder, sweetly singing temptation. "You say the word, I'll bite you right now, and all of this will stop. You'll be immortal, indestructible. You'll never know pain and suffering again."

"N-nev-er," Stiles gasped through the pain.

Marshall smiled. "Well, aren't we stubborn. How about we change gears? The only thing that makes better television than gratuitous violence is rowdy sex."

Marshall advanced toward him. Stiles hung lopsided from the branch, all his weight resting on his one good leg. He attempted to wiggle away from the vampire but only succeeded in sending sharp stabs throughout his body. "I want Sheriff Daddy to get a good view of this." Marshall twisted Stiles roughly, the rope yanking at his arms and straining his injured shoulder. When his side profile was sufficiently displayed, Marshall snaked one arm around his slender waist, and entangled the fingers of his other hand in Stiles' hair.

Stiles was growing dizzy from the blood loss, and it took him much longer than usual to realize what was coming next. "No, don-"

Marshall's mouth pressed violently against his, silencing all protests and cries. Though no breath issued from his deceased lungs, a foul stench wafted from deep within him, reeking of death and decay. He was cold and hard as stone. He tasted of blood and rot. His lips were raw and hungry, sucking at Stiles' mouth with a hunger and fervor unparalleled to anything Stiles had ever experienced. Draining him of all joy and laughter, of desire and hope. He could feel the bruises forming where Marshall's mouth covered his.

Stiles clenched his teeth; the muscles in his jaw tight and twitching, working over-time to keep this man outside of his mouth. Marshall's tongue muscle was as supernaturally strong as the rest of him. He wrenched Stiles' lips open, his dry tongue penetrating, prodding the recesses of the youth's cookie-crumb mouth and parched throat, beating Stiles' tongue into submission.

Stiles couldn't breathe. Between the sobs he could no longer contain and Marshall's mouth blocking his airways, he was smothering. He squirmed and writhed against him, but it was useless. It was like fighting a brick wall. Marshall intensified the kiss, deepening the embrace and pressing Stiles tighter against him.

Stiles was on the verge of blacking out when it occurred to him that was precisely what he needed. He went slack in Marshall's arms, a limp rag-doll. Marshall broke away, the lack of stimulation ruining the moment.

Air rushed into Stiles' reluctant lungs.

Tears and mucus ran down his face, mingling in salty thick streams and dripping off his chin. "I'll give you a moment to catch your breath," Marshall offered.

Stiles felt dirty and disgusting. The mountainous weight of his physical pain was nothing compared to the abyss that had widened within him with that kiss. Kisses were meant to be tender and passionate, symbols of love and devotion – or, in the very least, friendship. Sweet and innocent distractions to stop panic attacks.

Not ravenous shark bites that made you want to kill yourself. Dripping fatal venom into your soul, opening cavernous wounds deep inside, so dark and bloody no amount of light or love could ever heal them. Forever altering how he saw himself, his life.

 _If there's a God,_ he prayed, _please kill me now._

Marshall was adjusting the camera angle and zoom. He was singing to himself again. A song Stiles couldn't recognize through the fog settling around his brain. Then Marshall was in front of him again, his voice a gentle murmur, as he tenderly stroked Stiles' face. "Stay awake, now, lovey. Your eyes are my favorite part."

Languidly and deliberately, Marshall shrugged off his jacket. He folded it in half and draped it over the nearest branch. He planted a delicate peck on Stiles' brow. "I hope you're not fading too quickly on me," he was saying, as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. "I want you to enjoy this."

He knelt down in front of Stiles, placing a hand on either of the boy's hips. He kissed just above his bellybutton and then licked a line north to Stiles' throat. Kate Argent, Stiles remembered, had done something similar to Derek during a torture session. It was a sign of mastery. Of ownership.

It was sexual assault.

Stiles and Scott had naively teased Derek about it because, hey, Allison's aunt was hot, and once upon a time the hunter and werewolf had had a fling. Stiles regretted his good-natured ribbing of the sour werewolf now, of finding any humor in so gross a situation. However, he seriously doubted the tonguing of Derek's torso was anywhere near this horrifying or painful.

Karma sure was a bitch.

Dogs lick clean the wounds of their masters. A were-canine's touch brings healing, relief. He remembered the way Malia had sucked his thumb in Deaton's office, how amazing that had felt, how medically effective it had turned out to be.

A vampire's lick was the complete opposite.

Marshall's saliva burned, enhancing every gash, like bleach poured in his wounds. His bruises shrieked at him, telling him to _get the fuck out of there_ and stop causing ever-lasting damage to his flesh. Poison seeped into the lacerations on his chest, surrounding his broken ribs and igniting like gasoline in his veins. Stiles thought his heart would explode.

Marshall righted himself and licked the blood from his lips. "You know what I never understood about _Twilight?_ How could Edward impregnate Bella? Sperm die in freezing temperatures, right? So shouldn't a vampire essentially be sterile? Being cold kind of comes with the whole being 'undead' territory. Not that we have to worry about impregnation. Still – I haven't done this since I became a vampire, so I'm not sure if the little devil will even function properly. I hope so. I don't know what else I can do to get him fired up. I've been waiting a long time for this."

Marshall deftly unfastened Stiles' jeans as he spoke. An act he performed artfully and expertly – every move he made positively cinematic. He tugged them down to Stiles' kneecaps. Bits of ripped denim stuck at the edges of the cuts on his thigh. Stiles stood before the camera in his boxers. Ashamed at his own nakedness, he closed his eyes. He hoped his father would find the grace to forgive him.

Marshall unbuckled his own belt as he moved behind Stiles. "This will be better than anything you've ever experienced before, I promise."

Marshall's hand crept into his shorts.

Something inside of Stiles snapped. Sheer panic blinded him, and he lashed out in animal terror – kicking, head-butting, yelling. He could no longer feel his own injuries. The only clear thought in his head: he could not surrender. He had to at least _try_ to save himself. He refused to go down without a fight.

This couldn't be happening to him. He could handle the broken bones and possible internal bleeding, permanent disfigurement, even death. He could take that, could endure it – had faced the dangers of such things every time he stepped out his door since Scott had been Bitten by Peter.

But this... Obviously, he had known Marshall's intentions. Had known what all the playful banter about his attractiveness had been leading to. But now that it was actually happening, he erupted into full-blown hysteria. He couldn't be strong for his father, couldn't hold it together.

He was about to be raped by a frigging mythological creature.

Marshall grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back, so that it rested against the vampire's shoulder. Stiles looked up into that unearthly pale face, those lustrous silver eyes. Marshall gave him a fanged smirk. "Shhh. Be a good boy."

Marshall's hand closed around his crotch, as he opened his bottomless mouth wide and descended upon Stiles' exposed and vulnerable neck. As his teeth pierced through flesh, pain worse than anything Stiles had ever known exploded through his entire body.

He screamed.


	16. Chapter 16: Rescue

**Chapter Sixteen: Rescue**

Scott was attempting to guide them to a place he had never been.

Lydia's advice to think in terms of Stiles – and not vampire Marshall himself – had reminded him of everything Stiles had revealed to him in the nightclub parking lot. Stiles had been certain the man was here to finish the job, had coordinated all his attacks to reflect their conversations that night, so the only logical choice of location was to return to the place where it had all began.

Scott had never been to this particular area before, and was relying on his memory of Stiles' memory. Stiles' life might depend on whether or not he was a good listener.

The girls were following him blindly, trusting in his ability to lead, trusting in his closeness to Stiles. Lydia was driving behind him in her Prius. He could _feel_ her worry washing over him in steady waves. It was almost overpowering, and he wanted to give into his own fear, but he couldn't. Whatever sights greeted them, whatever they found when they arrived, he would have to hold it together. He was their Alpha. He had no other choice. They had no doubts he would be anything but their unwavering leader. Scott hoped their faith wasn't misplaced, and he could find Stiles – alive.

As time dragged on, the road stretching seeming endless before them, Scott was tempted to call Sheriff Stilinski. The sheriff would know exactly where the spot was, but he didn't want to alarm him. The truth of the matter was: Stiles could be dead. Until they knew for sure, Scott didn't want to worry Stilinski with this possibility.

After another ten minutes, following Stiles' vague directions, Scott was finally able to find the rest area off the highway. Now they just had to find the right clearing. He and the girls assembled, weapons ready. Kira, Malia, and Scott each armed with a syringe of dead man's blood. "Whatever we find, our first priority is killing the Head. We can't let him escape."

The girls nodded.

"Lydia, I think you should stay-"

"No."

"Lydia, this is going to be dangerous. You're not prepared to handle-"

"That guy has Stiles. I'm coming."

"What are you going to do?" Malia scoffed. "Stab him with your stilettos?"

Lydia's face crumpled. "We don't have time to argue right now. Please, Scott. I can help." She retrieved a white First Aid box from the trunk of her car. "You guys need to focus on killing Marshall, but I can tend to Stiles, alright? I'm certified in First Aid. We don't know how badly he's injured. If I'm caring for him, then you can focus all your energy into killing the Head. You won't be distracted if you know someone's with him."

"She's right," Kira commented.

"Okay," Scott agreed. "But stay back. I don't want anything happening to you too."

They tramped along a densely wooded path. Mud squelched under their feet. The forest was oddly quiet, devoid of the usual night sounds of scurrying rodents and nocturnal birds. Not even the beating of a bug's wings broke the stillness.

They walked carefully, scouting for any sign of life, of a trail. A broken branch, a footprint – anything. Lydia had a flashlight trained on the ground; the other three relied on their heightened sense of sight. Scott stopped abruptly, the girls nearly colliding with his back, and sniffed the air. His eyes flashed bright red in the darkness. "I can smell the vampire."

They veered off to the left, pushing aside brambles and branches. Tall grass crunching under their sneakers. "I smell blood," Malia said, as they pushed further in. "It's Stiles."

Scott had already shifted. He didn't look back when he answered. "I know."

The scent of the vampire grew stronger and stronger. They were jogging along in the dark; Lydia was falling behind, finding it difficult to keep up with their pace, her pretty floral skirt getting caught on thorns.

A terrifying scream shattered the silence.

Lydia's blood ran cold. It was the most pain-filled wail she had ever heard, worse than any ululation conjured in her nightmares or banshee premonitions. It was the kind of sound that could stop the heart of any mortal: tormented, hopeless, inhuman. Damned. Only this was worse – much, much worse – because she knew the source behind that noise.

Lydia's eyes widened and filled with tears. "Stiles!"

They took off at a run, stealth and strategy forgotten, crashing through the forest. The only clear thought in Scott's mind was the need to reach his friend. Lydia paused briefly to remove the shoes from her feet, chucking them aside, and then she too was running. She was fast – for a human. She ignored the rocks and sticks cutting into her soles. She suppressed the urge to scream.

Scott reached the clearing first. The sight of Stiles, bloodied and bruised, exposed in the bright glare of a flood-light, Marshall's fangs attached to his neck, was grotesque and horrific. The sort of heinous and ghastly spectacle of suffering and defeat that Marshall adored. Scott's worst fear realized during that split-second. Far more sinister than anything Gerard Argent could have ever dreamed up.

He gave a mighty, ear-splitting roar.

Marshall looked up, his mouth smeared with blood. He smirked. "Oh look, the cute little puppy-dog has come to play. And he's brought some more cubs to the party."

Scott charged.

Scott lunged at Marshall, but the vampire was fast. He merely side-stepped, and Scott missed, tripping over his own feet. He turned and snarled. Malia and Kira fanned out, creating a triangle around Marshall. The magic number of three. Kira had her sword unsheathed; Malia's fangs were ready. She was going to rip this bastard's throat out.

Marshall glanced casually at each of them in turn. "Three against one? Hardly seems fair. For you, of course."

Malia pounced. Marshall's arms flashed out at his side, his palms flat, facing outward. His hands connected square with Malia's chest, the force temporarily stunning her and sending her careening back. Kira and Scott shared a glance and attacked simultaneously. Scott tackled Marshall, locking firmly around his waist, and Kira thrust out with her sword. Impaling the vampire through the chest.

Marshall looked down with an amused smile on his face. "Did you just try to stake me in the heart? Poor dear. You can't stake what doesn't have a heart."

She had forgotten. The only way to kill the Head vampire was decapitation.

Marshall grabbed the back of Scott's neck with one hand and grabbed Kira's wrist with the other. He knocked them together like rag-dolls, and slowly pulled the sword from his chest. It clattered to the hard ground where he threw it.

Malia had recovered her breath and was up. She jumped on Marshall's back – much as she had Danny's – digging her nails into his flesh. He bucked and tried to pull her off, but she was better prepared this time. She readied herself to plunge her vial of dead man's blood into him, but he easily swatted it away. In a fit of panic to stay on him, Malia sank her teeth into his throat.

Marshall hollered, and swung ferociously at her. She attempted to stay latched on, keeping her jaw clamped shut, but the taste was overwhelming and disgusting. She thought she was going to pass out, it was that terrible. A million times worse than the scent alone could ever be.

Marshall bucked wildly and scratched at her in desperation. Wrenching her lose and hurling her into Scott and the disarmed Kira, who had just regained their stance.

When Lydia reached the clearing, her heart stopped. Scott and the others were circled around Marshall, alternately attacking and trying to subdue him. Stiles was a gruesome mess. He hung from a branch – a piece of butchered meat. His head lolled onto his chest. The too-bright light making him appear even paler, the red and purples even darker. She ignored the fighting and raced straight toward him. She swallowed the panic and bile rising within her, shifting into her practical emergency mode. Stiles needed her; she had to be strong.

"Oh, God. Oh Stiles. Stiles, speak to me." Her gentle hands fluttered at his face. "Speak to me," she begged.

Stiles groaned and blinked. He opened his eyes slightly. "Lydia?" he croaked.

"I'm here, Stiles. I'm here."

"You're alive." He smiled. He actually _smiled._

"You're going to be okay." She grabbed her dagger from where she had shoved it into her pocket, and carefully cut him down. She caught him as he fell forward, and gently lowered him to the ground, propping him against the trunk of the tree. Her eyes quickly scanned his body, assessing his injuries. The damage was so bad. Where could she possibly begin?

The profusely bleeding neck wound was probably a good start.

Amidst the gushing blood, Lydia was able to discern two puncture wounds. Deep and disgusting. The skin around the holes like ground beef. The relatively small size of the incisions – especially when compared to his other injuries – should not have amounted to the volume of blood Stiles was losing. Using a bottle of water, Lydia cleaned the wound for a closer look. Stiles hissed. "I'm sorry," she apologized.

She pressed a clean piece of gauze to the wound, but the blood quickly seeped through. The wound should have already started clotting, but the vampire venom kept it from doing so. She applied more gauze and a thick cloth, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.

Stiles lifted a blood-caked hand to her hand. She could see bruising around his wrist. "You look like...an angel." Each labored word hardly louder than a whisper. He gazed up at her with cloudy cinnamon eyes. The glow from the flood-light illuminated her red hair like a halo.

She barked a cheerless laugh. "You're delusional."

"I remember...sophomore lacrosse championship...when I scored, your face...angel."

Lydia choked down a sob, remembering how proud she had been of him that night, remembering the way he had sought her smiling face out in the crowd, his own goofy smile. She also remembered visiting him after the game. Remembered the bruises on his face. This was infinitely worse – and here he was, adoring her, like he always did. Even when Jackson had tossed her aside like she was worthless, had shaken the self-confidence she carried like a torch, here was Stiles building her up again.

"Try not to talk so much," she advised. "You're losing a lot of blood."

There was no one in the world but her and Stiles.

Their friends were warring against the vampire – and losing.

They had underestimated the Head. Fighting Danny had been difficult enough, but he was a fledgling. His power was nothing compared to Marshall's. They were down to two syringes of dead man's blood, and – despite their abilities to heal – were taking a beating. Marshall maintained the defensive position; he didn't even need to take the offensive to be completely obliterating them.

Scott popped his dislocated shoulder back into place, so that it would heal correctly, and glanced at the girls. With his eyes he communicated a plan to them: a simultaneous attack. If they all came at Marshall at one time, it would increase the chances of at least one needle finding an opening. Kira had not yet had an opportunity to retrieve her katana, but she still had her vial. Malia – whose vial had been lost during the fighting – would be the distraction. On Scott's signal, they attacked. Kira went high, Scott went low, and Malia focused on causing the most damage possible.

The sudden onslaught momentarily took Marshall by surprise. He grabbed Malia first, his fist closing around her throat. She struggled and gasped for breath. Scott tackled him, knocking him off balance, but he did not release his hold on Malia. Marshall's leg kicked out, connecting painfully with Scott's ribs. Sharp pain like lightning bolts shot up through his chest. He fell to his knees. Marshall crushed Scott's right hand under his foot, crunching bones and the syringe. Malia continued to claw feebly at his grip, but she was losing consciousness.

Marshall tossed her away from him, and Malia slammed against a tree, falling in heap at its base. Scott attempted to lunge at him again, pinning down his arms, and creating an opening for Kira. She took her chance, stabbing her needle just above his heart. Marshall paused, glanced down at the syringe, and smiled. "Nice try, honey. But one syringe of dead man's blood isn't going to work on me. I've got Stiles' delicious fresh hemoglobin rushing through my veins. He's O negative. - rare and _yummy._ " Marshall's arm suddenly shot out and he caught Kira. He pulled her close and sank his fangs into the flesh between neck and shoulder. She screamed.

"No!" Scott tried rushing to her aid, but Marshall secured him in a headlock.

He could see the light draining from Kira's eyes.

She blacked out. Marshall flung her to the side, near Malia's unmoving form. Scott strained his ears, and thankfully he could make out a steady, quiet pulse thumping in both girls. "I'm going to kill you," Scott growled.

"Tsk. Tsk. Don't make promises you can't keep." Marshall whipped Scott around and landed a blow to his midsection. Scott clutched his stomach and doubled-over. Marshall delivered an upper-cut to Scott's jaw that sent him flying backward. "I'm going to kill you and your little friends, Pup. But first, I'm going to finish my business with Stiles."

Marshall punched him again, and Scott's vision went black. He slumped to the ground. He could feel unconsciousness overtaking him. He couldn't allow it to, couldn't black out now. Stiles needed him. He had to fight it.

Having neutralized the threat, Marshall turned his attention back to Stiles and the unfinished job at hand. He advanced, a smirk curling his lips.

Lydia stood shakily and took a step forward, putting herself between Stiles and the vampire. She clutched her dagger in both hands, wielding it in front of her the way she had seen Kira hold her sword. She wasn't going to let him near Stiles ever again. "Stay away from him!"

Marshall chuckled. "I'm impressed you managed to survive Matteo, Red. You truly must be a remarkable girl. I can understand why Stiles admires you so. Shame he's gotten more action from a convicted serial killer than the girl of his dreams."

"You come near him, and I'll kill you." Lydia's voice was angry and loud, but she was shaking.

"You can try."

Marshall stepped closer. Lydia fought the scream rising in her lungs, readying herself for the inevitable pain that was to come. A banshee wail wouldn't save her, wouldn't save Stiles. She was going to have to play hero this time. She brandished her knife in one hand. Marshall gnashed his fangs and –

A mighty roar sounded behind him. Marshall spun on his heel. Scott flew through the air, Kira's katana clutched in his hands. His red eyes flashed, and he swung – slicing Marshall's head clean off in a single strike.

Marshall's head tumbled to the ground and rolled. The smirk still on his face.

Lydia blanched and dropped down next to Stiles. Scott shifted back into his human state, his smooth brow wrinkled in concern. He surveyed the damage. His nose was full of the scent of his best friend's blood.

Scott knelt down and turned his arms upward-facing. He made to lift Stiles in one swift scoop, but Lydia stopped him. "You can't move him. We don't know what other internal injuries he may have. We need to call an ambulance."

Scott shook his head. "I'll take him." He'd look after Stiles. He'd take him to the hospital. He wasn't going to trust his best friend's fate to a bunch of strangers.

Lydia grabbed his arm. The strength of her grip surprised him and he hesitated. "Scott, I know you want to help him, but this is too much for either of us to handle. He needs trained professionals. I'm going to call an ambulance, but I need your help to keep him stabilized until the paramedics arrive."

Scott stared at Stiles in sorrow and apprehension.

"Scott, can you do this?"

He looked at her, at the resolve on her face. She was handling this with remarkable calm and maturity. He nodded. While Lydia retrieved her cell-phone and dialled 911, she instructed Scott on where to place his hand on Stiles' neck, applying pressure to staunch the flow of blood. Scott placed his hand as she indicated. While Lydia explained their situation and location to an operator on the other end, Scott kept his right hand at Stiles' neck. With his left hand, he took Stiles' hand in his. He took a deep breath, and absorbed Stiles' pain into himself. It was agonizing and paralyzing. His veins throbbed black as just a portion of Stiles' suffering flowed into him.

Stiles sighed as relief flooded through him. He slowly opened his eyes. He focused on Scott and smiled. "Hey, bro. I knew...you'd come."

"Couldn't let that vampire kill you," Scott's smile was strained, his voice breaking with emotion even as he joked, "you still owe me five bucks."

Stiles laughed lightly, the gesture sending stabs through his ribcage that Scott quickly internalized. Suddenly, Stiles' eyes widened and he became frantic, agitated. He made a move to sit up, but Scott gently pushed him back down. "Woah, Sty. Where are you going?"

"Tape. Gotta...get...tape." His voice was hoarse and Scott had to lean forward to hear the words properly.

"Tape. Why do you need tape?"

"Can't let...Dad...see it. Gotta...destroy it."

"Destroy what?"

"The _tape."_ Stiles pointed, and Scott noticed the red light blinking at the edge of the darkness. His stomach churned as he realized what Stiles meant, realized the purpose of the camera. Hatred burned white hot within him and he wished he could kill Marshall all over again. Beheading was not an adequate enough punishment for so vile a creature.

"Please, Scott."

"I need to keep pressure on your wound, buddy. I'll do it once the paramedics get here."

Stiles made a slight motion of his head. "Now."

"Stiles-"

Stiles fixed him with a steady stare. "Now. Don't want...anyone...to see."

Scott nodded, and looked at Lydia. She was still talking to the dispatcher on the phone, hovering over Stiles' wounds and her first-aid kit as she tried to follow the dispatcher's instructions, but had focused enough attention on their conversation to know what was happening. She kept her phone pressed to ear with her shoulder, and placed her hands on Stiles' neck. Scott released his hold on Stiles. The boy grimaced and swooned as all his pain returned to him in one crashing wave.

Scott approached the camera. Part of him morbidly curious, wondering what had happened, what Marshall had done to Stiles. The largest part of him hoping he would never know. Scott ripped the camera from the tripod and crushed the entire contraption in his large hands. The disk inside nothing but powder and wasted footage.

Scott picked up Marshall's head. He stared into the now colorless eyes, searching for any semblance of humanity. He tossed it into the blazing firepit, and watched as it caught aflame and was reduced to ash. Malia and Kira were beginning to stir. Scott checked on their wounds, which were healing nicely – even Kira's bite – and commanded them to begin dismembering Marshall's corpse and to throw each piece into the fire immediately. They couldn't afford to allow any time for the Head to magically regenerate himself. Or for the paramedics to see and ask questions.

Scott returned to his place beside Stiles. Lydia was still applying pressure with one hand, using her other to check Stiles' injuries and provide the dispatcher with a full account. Scott doubted the first-responders who would respond to their call had seen anything this gruesome before.

He crouched down and took Stiles' hand. Once again feeling incredible pain wash over him. He could hear sirens wailing in the distance. "You're going to be alright, Stiles," he promised. "You're going to be alright."

"Did you get...the tape?"

"What tape?"

Stiles smiled. "Thanks." He lost consciousness.


	17. Chapter 17: Waiting Game

**Chapter Seventeen: Waiting Game**

Sheriff Stilinski heard the call over the scanner in his cruiser.

He had been preoccupied that evening travelling back and forth between two new crime-scenes – the murder of a pretty junior named Alana Morris, whom he recognized from Stiles' yearbook as Glee Club president, and that of J.R. Spence, a local pizza delivery boy. He hadn't had time yet to call home and check in.

It frustrated the sheriff that he knew exactly who the murderer was and couldn't arrest him, couldn't bring any legal conclusion to the investigation. He could just imagine the field-day the press would have if he tried to bring a vampire to court. They'd call him unfit for duty, take away his badge in contempt of court, call for his dismissal pending psychiatric evaluation. They would turn him and his career into a farce, a giant joke, and he didn't even want to think how they would extend their judgements to his parenting.

No, there was nothing he could do within the confines of the Law. In the supernatural world, justice and order rested in the hands of its own populace. In this particular case, justice was a burden to be carried out by the young and inexperienced – Stiles and his friends.

Thinking of his son for the hundredth time that night, Sheriff Stilinski wished he could call it a night and head home. But he had work to do, a duty to fulfil. A duty that always seemed to demand he be away from his son.

As he was driving to the station, dreading the mountains of paper work and statements he still had to conquer, Sheriff Stilinski tried calling Stiles' cell-phone. It rang several times and finally went to voice-mail. Stiles' light-hearted voice cracked a joke about his inability to answer his phone and told him to leave a message. "Stiles," Stilinski's voice was stern, deepened by the worry he was attempting to conceal and silence. "You better have your phone on, and you damn well better be in the bathroom. Call me as soon as you get this."

When the sheriff pulled into the parking space reserved for him, a paramedic from Sunnydale was attempting to contact the dispatcher. A young man's voice crackled across the wire, and Sheriff Stilinski thought he could hear a faint distress in his calm tone. "We need a table prepped at Beacon Hills Memorial...Teenage boy brutally attacked in woods...Suspected internal bleeding...Pretty bad shape." The first-responder supplied their coordinates and a time-frame for arrival.

A half-buried memory resurfaced when Stilinski heard the ambulance's location. His own voice rattling off similar coordinates to Deputy Andrews. A pitch black night in early summer. A rest area off the side of a back highway. A clearing. A campsite. A red Ford Edge and an abandoned blue bicycle.

"Oh, God. Stiles."

The sirens trumpeted through the darkened streets, his red and blue flashing lights illuminating everything in their path. A herald of violence in its own right – supernatural wail not required. Sheriff Stilinski's knuckles were white as they gripped the steering wheel. Every nerve awake and alert. Eyes locked on the road. Rubber tearing up the pavement as he blazed a trail to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. Woe to anyone who accidentally got in his way.

A gurney was being unloaded from the ambulance when he arrived. Emergency responders and ER staff crowded around a dark shape. Sheriff Stilinksi couldn't see the person on the stretcher. He threw the cruiser into park, left the door open as he raced across the parking lot. He pushed his way through a sea of uniforms. He needed to know.

Sheriff Stilinski followed them into the hospital, and broke through the crowd to the front. In a split-second, he caught a full glimpse of the patient. A boy, so small, clad only in plaid boxers. Pale skin a mess of bruises and blood. He could see shredded flesh and pieces of jagged bone. An oxygen mask and gauze dominated the face, neck, and chest. The dark hair was matted. The brown eyes closed. Injuries so grotesque they made their victim appear inhuman. A ghost from the Other Side.

Sheriff Stilinski would know that face anywhere. "Stiles! Oh, God, Stiles!"

Nurses were pushing the gurney through a pair of swinging doors. He attempted to follow, but a burly nurse stepped in front of him and blocked his path. "Sir, you need to let the doctors do their-"

"That's my son!" Sheriff Stilinski tried to push past the nurse, but the man caught his arm.

"Sheriff," the man's voice was austere and placid, but his blue eyes held compassion. "Let the team work. Your son is in good hands. You need to wait here."

The sheriff's posture was stiff. He prepared to argue. "My son-"

"John." It was Melissa McCall, looking worse for wear, her left arm in a sling that supported the cast from her wrist to elbow; bruises lined her chin. She was wearing her scrubs, a leather jacket draped over her shoulders. She put her hand on his arm. "They'll take care of him." He allowed her to lead him away and over to a nest of chairs. He threw the male nurse a gruff glance over his shoulder. The man disappeared through the same doors that had claimed his son.

Sheriff Stilinski sat down heavily and scrubbed his face with his hands. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes, but he refused them passage. He had no foolish prejudices against crying – especially when such a reaction was appropriate, even necessary – but he knew once he started he wouldn't be able to stop. So he resigned himself to silent waiting – that most frustrating of human activities – because it was all he could do. He could catch bad guys, keep food on the table and a roof over their heads, he could pull Stiles out of nightmares and dole out parental advice, but this was beyond his realm of expertise.

Stilinski couldn't save Stiles, and it was killing him.

He needed to find out what had happened to his son.

The automatic doors swooshed open, admitting a group of bedraggled teenagers and chilly night air. Sheriff Stilinski stood abruptly. Melissa's hand still gripped his arm. An anchor in a storm of emotions. She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and wet. "John?"

Scott, Lydia, Malia, and Kira hurried over. Melissa stood and embraced Scott, holding him close and then pushing him to arm's length, so she could check him for injuries. Aside from the exhaustion and fear in his eyes, he was mostly healed from their fight.

Sheriff Stilinski motioned for Lydia to sit in the chair he had just vacated, the other girls taking seats beside her. Scott assured his mother he was fine, and quieted her fussing. "How's Stiles?"

"We don't know yet."

Scott looked to Sheriff Stilinski and stepped forward, but the man backed away, one hand raised. Melissa shook her head at Scott, and he sat where she indicated.

The sheriff's voice was tight and strained when he asked, "What happened?"

Scott told him what he knew, Lydia filling in gaps where she could. Stiles had been alone with Marshall for almost forty-five minutes before they had arrived. He was in bad shape. They didn't know what Marshall had done to him.

"He was Bitten."

Stilinski stopped mid-stride in the pacing he had begun while they told their tale. "Will he...?" He prayed to God Stiles wouldn't rise a vampire like Matteo and Danny had. A fate worse than death. Would he be forced to kill his own son?

"No," Scott was confident. "Deaton called on the ride over. Since we killed the Head, Danny reverted back to normal. With Marshall dead, Stiles won't change."

The sheriff nodded. Relieved his son wouldn't become an immortal, damned creature, a reflection of the man they hated most – but he was fearful Stiles might not live at all. Undead or otherwise. "You took care of Marshall?"

"Yes."

Stilinski needed to be certain. "You're sure? There's no way he can ever return?"

"Never." Only in Stilinski's nightmares.

The sheriff bowed his head in acknowledgement and rubbed his hands on his thighs. His palms were sweaty. He felt hot and shaky. Melissa was watching him with concern. She came over, put a hand on his bicep, and whispered, "Are you okay?"

"Yes. No. I just – I need a minute. Bathroom?"

She pointed down a hallway. "There."

"Make sure the kids are alright."

Sheriff Stilinski went into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. The bland walls were closing in around him. He couldn't breathe. His lungs were constricted, unable to intake the precious oxygen he required. His face and hands were tingling – numb. He splashed cold water on his face from the faucet and loosened his collar.

He placed his hands on either side of the cool porcelain sink. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, ashen and disheveled. Drained by the harsh florescent lighting and his own fear. His own weakness, the unveiled terror in his own eyes, made him sick.

He remembered the bruising and blood on Stiles' face.

An inhalation caught in his throat, expelled in a sudden rush. Another sharp intake of breath followed by an almost immediate exhale. The air never reaching his lungs. _In. Out. In out. InOutInOut._ Hyperventilating.

A panic attack.

Sheriff Stilinski had failed his son. _Inoutinout._ A disturbed, revenge-minded serial rapist and killer, with the power of the undead and the devil himself, had kidnapped and tortured his son. Had possibly... ... _INOUTINOUT_...and he hadn't been there to protect him. Hadn't even known any of this was happening. Too little too late, as always. Scott had rescued his son – _Scott_ who had dragged Stiles into his supernatural world in the first place – but Stiles' own father couldn't do the job.

His gun, his badge, his more than twenty years on the force – they were all worthless. Meaningless. Wasted years, wasted time. Nothing meant anything to him but his son – his son the jokester, the wise-ass, the planner, the hero. His son was stronger than he would ever be.

His son was going to die.

"Hold it together, Stilinski," he berated himself, between gasps. He stared down his reflection, daring the man on the other side to disobey him. He had helped Stiles through late-night panic attacks before, had helped him calm down and breathe deeply. Now, when Stiles needed him most, he needed to exercise the same presence of mind and self-control to pull himself together.

Stiles' name was a mantra in his head as he forced himself to breathe, to suck in the necessary life-giving air and suppress his panic. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to surrender to distress and hysteria, to allow himself to fade into oblivion, because what kind of life would be worth living without his family? He resisted the urge to give into his fear. Fear was an admission of defeat.

He wasn't defeated yet.

Sheriff Stilinski splashed more water on his face, washing away his sweat and tears, the last traces of his anxiety, and toweled off with cheap brown paper from the dispensers. He adjusted his gun belt, his collar, and his jacket cuffs, waiting for the redness in his face to lessen and his heart to stop pounding, before joining the others.

Melissa handed him a steaming styrofoam cup of instant coffee. He wondered how long he had been gone. Time seemed relative and fickle. "Jackie came out to speak to us," she said, referring to an ER nurse and a mutual friend of theirs. "Stiles is in surgery. They are worried about damage to his organs and internal bleeding. Doctor Ferguson is working on him. You couldn't ask for a pair of more capable or gentle hands. He'll take good care of Stiles."

The waiting seemed endless. Seconds dragged into minutes, minutes into hours. Sheriff Stilinski called the girls' parents and Jordan Parrish. He needed the deputy to act in his place for official police duties regarding the case. The sheriff knew he was too close to the situation to clearly and objectively handle it himself.

Before Parrish arrived, Stilinski briefed the teens on what to say in their statements. He wanted them to retain some semblance of the truth: a man matching Marshall's description had kidnapped and attempted to kill Stiles. Landry was near the top of the F.B.I's Most Wanted List, and known to have been seeking Stiles. The story was plausible and truthful – they just needed to leave out the supernatural parts. They had been having a bonfire in the woods, Stilinski claimed, his voice so steady and convincing they would have believed the story themselves, if they hadn't known otherwise. Scott was reminded of the night Allison was killed, of how Chris Argent had advised them in a similar fashion, practical and clear-headed in the midst of his own grief. "Stiles went to pee, but didn't return. You went looking for him, and found Marshall. He had a knife, but no gun. When you called 911, he escaped. Alright? Are we clear? Do you know the story?"

The teens nodded and when Deputy Parrish arrived, Agent Pierce at his heels, perfectly fed the officers their story with the same conviction Sheriff Stilinski had demonstrated while crafting the lie. They never wavered, despite Pierce's relentless questioning and prodding. He wanted more details. Details they couldn't provide.

Lydia's mother, her arm wrapped protectively around her daughter's shoulders, was a mother bear. She growled at Pierce to back off, threatening lawsuits and charges, yelling that couldn't he see these children had been through enough and couldn't he damn well back off?

Sheriff Stilinski was both impressed and appalled by their ability to lie, uncomfortably aware that the lives they led necessitated such deceptions. Mrs Yukimura glanced knowingly at Stilinski, her hand on her daughter's shoulder while Kira gave her statement. He frowned and looked away. He would never forgive the part Yukimura had played in the nogitsune incident, how willing and ready she had been to kill his son, in order to rectify a mistake she had made sixty years earlier.

When he had finished collecting statements, Parrish pulled Sheriff Stilinski aside to ask how he was doing. The sheriff muttered a gruff, generic reply about being "fine" and gestured to Pierce, who was nearly in danger of having Mrs. Martin claw his eyes out. "You brought the fed?"

"He was at the station when your call came in. When he heard Stiles was the boy who had been attacked, he insisted on coming. I couldn't leave without him. Do you think Landry was responsible for all the recent murders in town?"

Stilinski nodded, though he knew differently: thanks to Lydia and Scott, he now knew Matteo Venturini had been responsible for the deaths of Alana Morris and the pretty sophomore girl who had been killed the day before. And poor J.R., whose delivery job gave Matteo the perfect cover for getting into their house.

Leave it to Stiles to be undone by his love of pizza.

Parrish's lips pressed into a thoughtful line. He ran a hand through his hair absently. "Is it possible he had a partner? Those girls weren't his type. Their murders didn't follow the pattern. Pierce and Santiago's profile of Landry was very specific. And while I can understand the attack on Agent Santiago as a personal vendetta, her murder didn't match his MO. It was too quick, too uncontrolled, too impulsive, almost animalistic. You've seen the reports – and how the kids just described Stiles' assault – Landry takes his time, draws the killing out, turns it into a game. Doesn't make sense to me."

Parrish was intelligent, perceptive. Two dangerous qualities to have living in Beacon Hills.

The deputy shrugged, dismissing his own analysis. He clapped a hand on his superior officer's shoulder. "Guess we'll learn more when Stiles wakes up." Stilinski was grateful he didn't use the word _if._ "He's going to be okay. Stiles is a strong kid."

Sheriff Stilinski smiled wanly and nodded his appreciation. "I know."

After Parrish and Pierce left, Sheriff Stilinski sent the others home. The teens protested in a cacophony of exhaustion, whines, and angst. They wanted to stay, wanted to be there for Stiles. A small light glowed around his heart that his son should have such loving friends, but he didn't budge on the matter. The other parents agreed with Stilinski and even Melissa, who wanted to remain at the hospital, acted as an example, taking John's side and suggesting they all go home and rest. There was nothing more they could do tonight, and they wouldn't be able to help Stiles if they couldn't hold their heads up tomorrow. The next day was Monday, and while Melissa doubted any of them would be attending class, they needed sleep, warm beds and proper nutrition. The adults were firm and rational – children could never win when their parents were so _sensible –_ and their petitions were denied. Lydia offered one final plea to her mother, but a yawn betrayed her.

Sheriff Stilinski bid them goodnight and promised to call if Stiles' condition changed.

Scott pulled the sheriff aside and privately begged to stay. Stiles was his best friend; he _needed_ to be by his side. He respected his mother and the sheriff, but nothing they said would convince him to leave. John could try physically removing him from the hospital, but Scott was sure he could take the sheriff in a fight.

Sheriff Stilinski smiled slightly, looked from the boy to Melissa, and back at Scott's determined face. He remembered how the boys had embraced before Stiles' brain scan. Scott had exhibited the same resolve then. "Okay," he relented. "I could use the company."

Scott said goodnight to his mother, and the pair settled into a family waiting room outside the ICU wing. There were chairs and couches, a muted television playing CNN, and a fridge with containers inside, marked with surnames in Sharpie for families who had taken up residence in the room days, even weeks, earlier. Stilinski prayed these hospital noises and sights, these worn chairs and bright lights, wouldn't become permanent fixtures in his life anytime soon.

At 3:30am, Scott was sprawled on a couch, flipping through a July issue of Cosmo, and Stilinski was alternately rubbing his knuckles and staring into space, when a doctor in a surgical gown and navy scrubs entered. He had removed his surgical cap and mask, but still wore his blood-stained gloves. He pinched the cuff of his left glove, peeled it off, and then slid two fingers inside the right. He threw the gloves into a biohazard bin, and asked "Sheriff Stilinski?"

He was nearly bald, the cropped red fringe circling his crown the only indication of his former hair color, and short. There were crow's feet at the corners of his violet eyes, and deep wrinkles in his high forehead. He was not a handsome man, but he had a kind, open face that bespoke compassion, and a steadiness in his hands and demeanour that testified dexterity and talent.

John stood and shook the man's outstretched hand. Scott stood closer than his shadow.

"I'm Doctor David Ferguson."

"How's my boy?"

"It was touch-and-go for a while, but your boy's a fighter. He lost a lot of blood. He suffered some internal bleeding in his abdomen, which we were able to diagnosis through an exploratory laparotomy. We were able to stop the source of bleeding and repair the damage to his organs. It was necessary to remove his right kidney and a small section of his liver. Fortunately, there shouldn't be any serious lasting effects. Many people lead normal, healthy lives with just a single kidney. However, he will have to be more careful while playing contact sports and monitoring his blood pressure and glomerular filtration rate – or GFR, since the kidneys are responsible for removing waste from the bloodstream. We're keeping a close eye on him now for infection. His leg is in a cast, but due to his youth and previous record of good health, the bones in his feet and leg should heal nicely. He may require physiotherapy to regain full use of his leg and shoulder, but if he works hard, he should be able to walk normally again. We bandaged his broken ribs – thankfully his lungs weren't punctured and his airways remained clear – and the wounds on his neck. His friend's quick thinking kept him from bleeding out. She probably saved his life.

"He _will_ have extensive scarring on his chest and back. Bruising was wide-spread and he'll be sore and, quite frankly, gruesome-looking for some time. All that said, Stiles is strong. And, if the whispers around the ER are true, and he faced the newest Beacon Hills serial killer and lived, then he's damn well lucky. He's going to be just fine, Sheriff Stilinski. All he needs is time."

"Thank you, Doctor!" The sheriff shook the man's hand again.

"There is something else."

"What? What is it?"

Dr. Ferguson eyed Scott skeptically. Sheriff Stilinski understood and asked Scott to give them a moment in private. The teenage werewolf retreated to a chair in the far corner and pretended to flip through his discarded magazine. John knew he was listening to every word.

"We discovered serious bruising around Stiles' scrotum."

"What are you saying?"

"Let's be candid then, Sheriff. I have no concerns about Stiles' physical health. However, he suffered a great deal of trauma tonight. Post-traumatic stress disorder is common among victims of assault, especially an assault of this escalated nature. I'm going to recommend you to a therapist friend of mine, whom I greatly trust and admire. She has dealt with cases of this magnitude in the past, and she may find it necessary to prescribe something for Stiles to help him cope with the aftermath of what he has experienced. I can help mend his body, but it will take much more to mend his spirit."

Sheriff Stilinski nodded dumbly. He felt light-headed.

"I know you've probably seen this before, Sheriff. Despite all our grand notions of justice, victims of sexual assault suffer sometimes irreparable damage. Aside from PTSD, these victims often suffer from depression, disassociation, insomnia, eating disorders, guilt, personality and identity disorders, nightmares, flashbacks, shock, helplessness, anger. Stiles may feel like he can't trust anyone, like he's weak for experiencing these emotions. In rape victims-"

Sheriff Stilinski's heart stopped. He heard Scott's sharp intake of breath behind him. "Was Stiles...? Did Landry...?"

The doctor shook his head. "No. There was no evidence of anal penetration: no bleeding or bruising. This 'Landry' didn't get that far." The sheriff sighed in relief. "But don't underestimate the consequences and psychological effects of this trauma. They may be just as intense and damaging as if he _had_ been raped. Stiles may have trouble with intimacy, trust, and closeness for a long time. Even with you, possibly especially with you. He's going to need you more than ever, Sheriff. He's going to need to know that no matter what happened, his father still loves and accepts him."

Sheriff Stilinski didn't know if the accusation he heard behind those words was real or imagined. How could anyone ever assume John Stilinski would do anything but love, encourage, and support his son?

"We're settling Stiles into a room now. You'll be able to see him soon."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Trust me, Sheriff. Stiles did all the work – and there's more work to be done."

Doctor Ferguson left. Sheriff Stilinski and Scott fell into an uncomfortable silence as they resumed waiting. Neither knew what to say, whether they could say anything. How would that conversation begin? Scott wasn't the person Sheriff Stilinski could share his thoughts, his emotions, his fears with. He didn't know if he could do this alone, if he could be there for Stiles in the wretched aftermath that Ferguson described.

He wished for the hundredth time that day that Claudia could be there to strengthen him and tell him what he was supposed to do. And, for the first time since her death, he was glad she wasn't here to see what had happened to their baby boy.

Finally, a nurse appeared. She was young and pretty, her honey hair swept back into a long ponytail. Stilinski didn't recognize her; she must be new. "You can see him now." Scott stood to follow the sheriff, but she stopped him. "I'm afraid I can only admit family members."

Scott started to protest, but the sheriff quickly interrupted. "This boy is family. He's my son's brother." The nurse eyed them doubtfully but permitted Scott to enter.

Stiles was in a single room, surrounded by beeping machines and IVs dripping fluid and medications into his veins. The skin on his hands was paper thin, and they could see every blood vessel in his long fingers. He lay in a sea of bleached white blankets, mirrored by white walls and a white ceiling. White blinds that covered a window with a view of the parking lot.

Stiles' foot, leg, and hips were coated in plaster and fiberglass several inches thick. The cast was suspended slightly above the bed from a pulley attached to the ceiling. His nakedness was covered with a green hospital gown, but they could see lumps along his thighs, abdomen, and chest denoting bandages. His neck was covered in thick gauze; a respiration tube was affixed to his nostrils.

Sheriff Stilinski gently smoothed the hair back from his son's face. "Oh, God – Sty." It was all he could bring himself to say.

Scott sat in a chair beside Stiles' bed and gingerly took his hand, careful not to loosen any tubes or wires. He tried to absorb Stiles' pain, but there was none to take. The pain killers pumping through his system kept him in a blissful, unaware healing-induced slumber. Scott wished he could heal Stiles, could transfer his own abilities to him, if only for a minute. He wished he could alleviate mental suffering the way he could physical.

Scott looked from the bruised face to the man standing sentry over it, his large hand resting affectionately on the pale forehead. Tall and rigid as a statue, a stone guardian angel, strong and tireless. A light to ward off the nightmares and the fear. Scott wished his father was half the man John Stilinski was.

After almost half an hour, Scott finally managed to convince the sheriff to sit down. John felt he had done nothing but _sit._ Sit and wait. He wanted action. Wanted to be doing something. Wanted to resurrect Marshall so he could kill the bastard himself.

They sat in silence – brother and father – on either side of Stiles, each clutching a pale, IV-riddled hand, tethering him to this world. Stilinski tenderly rubbed his thumb over Stiles' knuckles, his fingers ghosting over the bruises like bracelets on his son's wrists. His eyes never leaving that most beloved of faces. Dark and grisly against the pillow.

Across from him, Scott was nodding off with increasing frequency. His head would fall to his chest, and he would pull himself awake with a start, open his eyes wide and try to fight off sleep with decreasing success. His eyes would droop, his mouth would yawn, and he'd trail off. "Go home, Scott," the sheriff ordered. "I'll call you if anything changes."

Scott knew better than to argue this time. Reluctantly, he released Stiles' hand, offered an exhausted goodbye, and called his mother. He was looking forward to his warm bed, his mother's soothing touch, a warm glass of milk and the warm sun peeking over the horizon, to ward off the darkness of the night before.

For the first time in twenty years, Sheriff Stilinski called in sick.

He wanted time alone with his son. Around him, he heard the hospital come alive with the shift change and the in-rush of morning patients: doctors' appointments and childhood colds, prescription refills and paranoid hypochondriacs he didn't give a damn about. Finally alone, Sheriff Stilinski started to talk. He poured out his heart to his son. He confessed, over and over, how much he loved him; how much he needed him; how fearful he was of losing him, of failing him. He didn't realize he was crying until he felt the tears splash onto the hand that gripped Stiles'.

Sheriff Stilinski buried his face in the scratchy hospital sheets. He cried himself hoarse. "I'm sorry," he repeated, unable now to conjure up any other words. "I'm sorry, Stiles. God, I'm so sorry. I love you and I'm sorry."

It would have been a perfect time for Stiles to wake up. A beautiful scene of son awakening to the outpourings of love from his father in the brilliant light of day. His hand reaching over to touch his father's cheek and reply in croaky tones and a characteristic smile. A sentimental moment to rival any Hallmark moment.

But Stiles didn't rouse. Trapped in a dreamless, hollow slumber by a body slowly mending.

Sheriff Stilinski cried until there was nothing left. He rubbed his eyes and nose on his sleeve and leaned back in his chair to wait. To wait and to think. With his overt show of emotion out of the way, his mind was clear and focused. He couldn't seem to get Parrish's words out of his head. What if Marshall had a partner? He had turned Matteo and Danny. Could he have turned someone else?

Sheriff Stilinski dug his cell-phone out of his front pocket and dialled Deaton's number. The veterinarian answered with a note of surprise. "Sheriff, how are you? How's Stiles?"

"He's doing fine. Listen, Deaton, I have a question."

"Alright."

"Vampires need to be invited into private dwellings, right?" He had learned as much from Stiles. "But what about hotel rooms? Do they function as private or public dwellings?"

Deaton thought for a long moment before answering. "I suppose it would depend on occupancy. If the room was empty, it's a public space. A vampire could come and go at will. If the room was inhabited, even if temporarily, that space becomes a personal dwelling. A vampire would need to be invited in by the current resident."

Exactly what he had thought. "Thanks, Deaton."

The wheels in Sheriff Stilinski's mind were turning. His suspicions rising. This case wasn't over yet. "She was killed coming out of the shower," he thought aloud. "She would have needed to invite the vampire in. She was an FBI agent. She was careful, guarded. She wouldn't have admitted just anybody. She definitely would _not_ have admitted the serial killer she was tracking."

Sheriff Stilinski's hand closed tighter around Stiles'.

"Who killed Elana Santiago?"

* * *

 **A nice, long Papa Stilinski chapter! Thanks for reading, friends!**


	18. Chapter 18: Consciousness Regained

**Chapter Eighteen: Consciousness Regained**

He could hear voices. Whispering. Crying. Pleading. Calling out – to him? They spoke thickly in a language he couldn't understand. Their words tickled his brain, and he wished he could respond to them, wished he could brighten the sadness latent in the voices, but he couldn't. He didn't know how. He was floating in the void. Not darkness, because darkness was a something in itself – an opposite, an absence of light. This was nothing.

Was he dead? He couldn't be sure. He couldn't remember what had happened, how he had reached this place. He couldn't remember who he was, _what_ he was. All he knew was this place, this moment that was not a moment. An absence of time and being.

The voices continued to speak. He tried to move toward them, to find them in the Nothing, but how do you move in any direction in a void? Numb and sensationless. How long could he exist here, his own personal purgatory?

Warm. He felt warm. A pleasant heat spreading all over his body. He converged on the heat, on the wonderful _something_. Heat meant a source, a connection, a life. Hearth fires burning in a dark night, beckoning him home.

"Stiles." _Stiles –_ that was him. That was his name. Someone was calling for _him._ He focused all his energy into that voice, clung to it like a lifeline, felt it pulling him up like a buoy through the waves. He could hear other noises: beeping, squeaking, sighing.

The warmth concentrated and he felt his own heart beating.

He was alive.

Stiles woke up.

The world was white and fuzzy. He blinked away the fog, shapes forming in his vision. A blank ceiling, white walls, white sheets, a white cupboard in the corner, and a white sink to the left. Clear bags with transparent liquids that dripped into tubes. The source of the beeping was a machine beside his head.

Stiles had no idea where he was, how he had gotten there, and what had happened. He had a vague awareness of his own body. The white plaster sculpture at the end of the bed – _whose bed?_ \- belonged to him, so did the pale starfish-creature sprawled out on the sheets, into which the tubes trickled. He flexed his fingers slowly, stiffly. A part of his brain registered that such a simple action shouldn't require so much effort.

He wondered if he should be more concerned about the fact that he had no idea what was going on. But his brain felt wonderfully fuzzy and warm, and nothing concerned him at that moment.

The wonderful heat Stiles had felt earlier, the heat that had pulled him out of the Nothing, was present but centralized. One spot of pleasant warmth that seemed to radiate throughout his entire body. One spot, on the right, halfway down his body.

He turned his head. A window, a table with flowers and cards, a red GET WELL SOON balloon. An old man slumped sideways, asleep in a chair too small for him, his white shirt wrinkled, his mouth hanging opening lazily. His left hand gripped Stiles' hand tightly, despite being asleep.

Stiles watched his father's face. Why did he suddenly look so old? Was it the dark circles under his eyes? The permanent frown sagging his pink lips? The lines etched into his forehead and at the corners of his eyes? No, it was something more than that. An aura that Stiles could feel but couldn't see. He had a feeling he was responsible for the atmosphere of weariness that surrounded his father.

Stiles opened his mouth and attempted to shape the word "Dad." A rasp of air was all that emerged. He imagined a movie scene: an animated corpse sits up, coughs out dust and a moth. Funny, if it wasn't referring to himself. His throat, he now realized, was dry and sore. He wouldn't be surprised if he coughed up enough sand to fill the Sahara desert, he felt so arid and heavy.

He licked his lips and tried again. "Dad." Too hoarse. Quieter than a whisper. He squeezed his father's hand.

Sheriff Stilinski felt the gentle touch on his hand. Soft as a butterfly's wings opening. He remembered when he was a child, how his mother would bat her long eyelashes against his cheek. Butterfly kisses, she had called them. A tender token of affection more intimate than hugs and kisses, to be that close to another's face and yet so soft. He had given Stiles the same butterfly kisses when he was just an infant.

Sheriff Stilinski groaned and opened his eyes. He rubbed the sleepy crust away with his right hand, yawned, and sat upright. The light touch on his fingers happened again, waking Stilinski up completely. He saw the pale fingers, straight for so many hours, now curled around his own. His gaze travelled up the bruised wrist and bandaged neck to the weary face. Deep brown eyes blinked back at him and smiled.

"Stiles!" Sheriff Stilinski resisted the urge to throw his arms around his son like movie mothers do. "You're awake! Thank God!"

Stiles croaked out a monosyllabic noise.

"Sh, don't try to speak. Do you want some water?" Stiles nodded. Sheriff Stilinski grabbed a plastic cup from a tray and held it to Stiles' lips. Stiles drank greedily. His father wiped away the water that dribbled down his chin with a tissue.

Sheriff Stilinski knew he should get a nurse, but he wanted one private moment with his son first. He laid his hand on Stiles' head, and smoothed it back. He had done this so frequently in the last few days, Stiles would probably develop a widow's peak before he finished college. Stiles looked up at him, the way he used to at night when he was a boy, after John and Claudia had tucked him into bed and were saying goodnight.

Sheriff Stilinski felt the tears he had been holding in for days leaking out at the edges, but this time they were tears of relief.

"Wha...happen..ed?"

Stiles didn't remember. Stilinski could see in his eyes the grogginess clouding his memory. He wished Stiles never had to remember. "Marshall." Stiles nodded his head slightly and closed his eyes. "Stiles?"

"Can...t...feel...my...body..."

"That's just the drugs. You're in pretty rough shape, but the pain-killers are taking some of the edge off, hurrying along the healing process. The numbness will wear off." He hoped not too soon. Stiles may be through the worst of it, but he still had a long way to go.

"How...long...have...I...?"

"Been asleep?"

Stiles nodded again.

"Three days. It's Thursday." Sheriff Stilinski half-turned in his seat and gestured to the table behind him. "Your friends and teachers have been sending you all sorts of lovely things. Lydia and Malia have been here everyday. They talked to you, held your hand. The doctor said Lydia's first-aid probably saved your life." Voices, calling to him. "Scott's been in here too, but you probably figured that. He almost never leaves. I practically have to force him out of the room."

Stiles' lips lifted in an almost-smile. "You?"

"Did you think I would leave your side for even a minute?"

Stiles' smile widened and he shook his head.

Sheriff Stilinski patted his hand and stood. "I'd better call a nurse now, so they can check up on you." He reluctantly released Stiles and moved towards the door.

"D...ad?"

He stopped. "Yeah?"

Stiles' brow was furrowed and confused. "How...have...I...been...?" He motioned downward generally. Sheriff Stilinski indicated a contraption next to the bed.

"A nurse comes in and empties it."

He stepped into the hall and laughed heartily. He had barely cracked a smile in days, but he couldn't help himself. It was the funniest thing he had seen in weeks: the horrified look on Stiles' face when he realized he'd been peeing into a bag.

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

A couple nurses came to check on Stiles: they examined his injuries, asked him questions, cleaned his bandages, adjusted his dosages, and monitored his vital signs. They were pleased to find him doing so well; his extended period of unconsciousness had given them all pause for concern, but his healing was progressing wonderfully, and they were ecstatic to see that not only was he awake and aware but also in relatively good spirits.

The Sheriff could tell that Stiles, despite his massive injuries, was enjoying the attention the women lavished on him. He cracked jokes and witty asides, smiled his bruised lopsided smile and made the ladies melt. When he asked if they could remove the catheter soon and was answered in the negative, the disappointed and dumbfounded look on his puppy-dog face was so adorably sad one of the older nurses actually pinched his cheek in affection.

The attending physician was Dr. Ferguson. When he found Stiles awake and heard the good reports from the nursing staff, he was delighted. He hopefully predicted that if Stiles continued to progress as rapidly as he had been, he should be home within the week. He flipped through the notes attached to his clipboard. "I knew you were a fighter, Stiles. You and your father. He hasn't left your side for more than five minutes."

Stiles glanced at his father, who stared at the doctor, self-conscious under his son's gaze. Doctor Ferguson scratched his pen across Stiles' patient chart and offered one final smile. "I wish all my patients had the same strength of will as the Stilinski family. Now, Stiles, we're all very happy to see you awake, but you need to rest."

Stiles nodded. Considering he had been asleep for almost eighty straight hours, he was surprised to find himself feeling so tired. He could feel the traces of pain that had begun to bloom around his abdomen and rib-cage dulling as the pain-killers began to take effect.

"Dad?" he asked drunkenly, his eyes drooping heavily.

Sheriff Stilinski clutched his son's hand. "Go to sleep, Sty. I'm not going anywhere."

Stiles bowed his head, but was fast asleep before he could finish the nod.

When Stiles awoke again, it was late afternoon. Golden haze seeped through the blinds and dispersed under the bright overhead lighting. He couldn't remember where he was. He blinked and tried to rub the crust from his eyes, surprised by the enormous effort it took just to move his right hand. The tube taped to his skin refreshed his memory. He wondered how long it would be before he'd wake up in his own bed.

Stiles smacked his dry lips and groaned as he tried to shift his weight.

"Oh, you're up!" Sheriff Stilinski had been replaced by a pretty redheaded girl. She was playing cards with a dark-haired boy beside her. Stiles wondered if he wasn't still dreaming, if somewhere along the way he hadn't fallen down a rabbit hole and was now watching celestial beings in Wonderland mimicking mundane human activities.

Stiles tried to move again, and whined in pain as sharp stabs coursed through his side. "Take it easy!" Scott leaped forward to help, spilling half the deck onto the floor. He gently propped Stiles up against his pillows in a reclining position. "You're not supposed to move too much."

 _Great,_ Stiles thought, _forbid the hyperactive kid from moving._

"Thanks," he wheezed. Lydia held a cup of water to his lips, and he drank long and deeply. When he had finished, he relaxed and grinned lazily. "Hi."

"Hi," she smiled. She was a wonderful sight for his sore eyes.

"How long have you guys been here?"

Lydia looked to Scott and shrugged. "Maybe an hour, an hour and a half. Your dad stepped out a few minutes ago to make a phone call."

"You've been watching me sleep?"

"We've been watching you sleep for the last few days."

"At least you had more control over your bodily fluids this time," Scott commented.

Stiles groaned. Lydia's eyebrows furrowed in concern. "What is it? Are you in pain? Should I get a nurse?"

Stiles shook his head, and Scott laughed. "That wasn't a pain-groan, Lydia. It was embarrassment."

"Oh." Stiles' cheeks were bright pink. Lydia blushed faintly in reply. Scott grinned.

To cover his humiliation, Stiles asked, "What were you playing?"

"Go Fish."

Stiles arched an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

Lydia smiled. "Scott doesn't know many card games that don't involve cards with animated monsters-"

" _Anime,_ Lydia."

"Whatever. We played War for over an hour straight, and after I won" - she beamed proudly - "we decided to play something a bit lighter. I'm glad you're finally awake."

"Got tired of Scott's charming company?"

"Hey!"

Lydia chuckled lightly but then became doleful. Her eyes were misty. "We thought we lost you."

"You gave us quite a scare."

They would never know the extent of it. Scott and Lydia were staring at him, their eyes wide and full. Even if Lydia didn't love him the way he loved her, and Scott had other interests outside of their friendship, Stiles was overwhelmed by how loved he was. He supposed he hadn't realized it before.

"Thanks for saving me." He didn't know how they had rescued him, but they had. He'd never doubted they would.

"Thanks for not dying." Scott offered Stiles his fist, and Stiles bumped it softly – his touch so frail Scott hardly felt it. What he did feel was the discomfort starting to bother Stiles. He took Stiles' hand and took the ache into himself. His voice was solemn and serious: "Do you want me to call a nurse?"

"No." A nurse would bring him medication, the medication would make him drowsy, and he'd fall asleep. He didn't want to sleep while his friends were here. He didn't want his brain foggy. Clarity of memory hurt worse than his body, but he welcomed the pain. Pain reminded him he was alive. Reminded him that he had faced hell and survived.

The door opened. Sheriff Stilinski entered. He was wearing a troubled frown, but quickly hid it behind a relieved smile when he saw Stiles was awake. "How are ya feeling, Champ?" His father hadn't called him that since he was eight-years-old in Little League baseball. (Turned out baseball was definitely _not_ his sport. He had the dental records to prove it.)

"Good." How could he feel anything other than great with this much love pulsating around him in one tiny room?

"Do you need anything?"

"No. I'm alright."

"Okay. I just need to borrow Scott for a moment." Stiles arched an eyebrow questioningly. Scott shrugged. He had no idea. "I'll send Melissa in after I've spoken to Scott. She'll be glad to know you're up."

Stiles stared after them. Maybe if he looked at the closed door hard enough he'd acquire X-ray vision and be able to see right through it, or maybe he could make it spontaneously combust. His father had briefed him early on his condition, on the extent of his injuries and what had happened during the time he'd been comatose. He didn't remember anything after Marshall biting him, except dimly Lydia's angelic face hovering over him and Scott at his side, as he begged him to destroy the tape.

There had only been the one tape, right?

It wasn't like Sheriff Stilinski to single out Scott. Even less like him to talk to Scott privately, _away from Stiles._ Maybe his father had found new evidence, discovered new information, and was telling Scott about it. More bad news. Maybe they were trying to piece together what had happened to him. He wished they wouldn't. Maybe Scott was wrong, and they'd hadn't defeated Marshall. Maybe he was still alive and he was coming...

"Stiles?" Lydia softly touched his shoulder. Her fingers and her gaze were gentle and warm. He pulled himself out of the dark place.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" When would people stop asking him that question? "You had this freaked look on your face."

Stiles could see that whatever had passed across his face had scared Lydia. Her lips trembled slightly. He faked a smile to reassure her, repressing the paranoia mounting in his brain. "I'm fine." She looked uncertain. "Hey," Lydia's left hand bunched the sheet tightly; he took it in his own, thinking of the night in his room, when she had twisted the red thread of his mind around her finger. "I'm alright. I promise."

She nodded. A tear slipped from her eye, but she didn't notice. He didn't have the physical strength to brush it away – but that was fine too, because she was beautiful when she cried, and that tear was a glistening symbol proving she cared about him. She nudged her chair closer, her knees knocking the metal rails of his bed. He could feel her pleasant warmth, smell her lovely scent. He focused on those things and pushed his father and Scott from his mind, focused on the beautiful girl at his bedside. "Why don't you tell me what I've missed the last few days? Am I a legend?"

Scott could tell there was something wrong. "What's up, Sheriff Stilinski?" he asked, as soon as the sheriff closed the door behind him.

John motioned him further down the hall. When they were several rooms down, Sheriff Stilinski glanced around conspiratorially. Assuring himself the coast was clear, he admitted, "I need your help, Scott."

Scott didn't hesitate: "Sure. Anything." If Sheriff Stilinski wanted his help, he didn't care what it was for, he was game.

Stilinski smiled crookedly. "You don't know what I'm asking."

"I know you wouldn't ask unless it was important."

The sheriff nodded and said bluntly, "I think there's another vampire."

Scott's eyes widened. He hadn't expected those words – would never have expected anything remotely similar. "Are you sure?"

"Not completely, but I think it's a safe bet." Sheriff Stilinski briefly filled him in on the investigation he had been conducting from Stiles' bedside. Elana Santiago's death had made him suspicious, and his conversation with Deaton had confirmed his gut instinct that someone other than Marshall had killed her. To prove his point, he had combed open police cases to see if there were any suspicious deaths in the area. There weren't any, but he had found a string of disappearances in the last week that caught his eye. "They're all petty criminals in the area – small-time drug dealers, homeless junkies with nickle-and-dime charges, prostitutes-"

"There are prostitutes in Beacon Hills?"

"There are probably prostitutes in every city in North America, but that's not the point. We haven't found any bodies, and the only reason these persons are considered missing is because the Sheriff's Department has been keeping an eye on them, and each of them has fallen off our radar. These are not the kind of persons that cause a lot of attention when they disappear. Not Marshall's MO, but they could all be victims of a third vampire" - he was including Matteo in his count - "who is feeding. This guy is smart. He's keeping a low-profile."

"Do you think he'll come after Stiles?"

"I don't know. I don't want to worry him unnecessarily. He needs to focus on getting better." Scott nodded. "But I need your help catching this guy. We can't let him kill any more people." _Can't let him get anywhere near Stiles._

"I understand. You can count on my help – the rest of the pack too."

Sheriff Stilinski placed his hand on Scott's shoulder. "Thank you."

When Scott and Sheriff Stilinski rejoined Stiles and Lydia, Stiles was smiling widely, his face flushed with excitement. Lydia had her cell-phone out, the screen tipped horizontally, and was showing him a recording. "The cheerleaders made me a get-well video, Dad! _The cheerleaders!_ "


	19. Chapter 19: Visiting Hours

**Chapter Nineteen: Visiting Hours**

On Saturday, Stiles was deemed well enough to be transferred to a different ward. He was given another single room – a perk, he believed, of being the sheriff's son. The room was pretty much the same as his previous one: white and sterile. The same furniture, the same lousy view, now one story lower. The only differences were he was hooked up to fewer machines, allowed more visitors at one time, had a private bathroom (which he couldn't use himself but was nice for his father, who absolutely refused to go home) and – best of all – a television. What good was being bed-ridden if he couldn't spend his time watching mind-numbing daytime TV?

Stiles was awake more often, and he was restless. His father tried, to no avail, to convince him to start the math homework Lydia had dutifully brought him. But there was no way Stiles could concentrate on anything - let alone algebra.

With the weekend now upon them, Stiles had hoped to see his friends. School had severely limited the amount of time they could spend with him (he hadn't even been conscious for most of their visits), and he was looking forward to a full day with Malia, Lydia, and Scott. Sadly, it would be the most quality time he had had with any of them in weeks (boy, his life was pitiful), and he was determined to have some fun – even if he had to have that fun from his bed.

(Stiles knew there was a great sex joke in there, but his own sex-less-ness made the situation too pathetic for words.)

If his friends weren't all available at the same time, he figured at least one of them would be by to visit, or that they would divide the day into shifts.

He didn't expect them to bail on him.

Malia claimed she had a tutoring session. Being a coyote for the last several years had put her severely behind in class, and if she wanted to make it out of Remedial English, she needed to study. She would have readily and gladly skipped out on the tutoring to spend time with him, but if she didn't get her grades up she faced the possibility of being sent back to Eichen House. Neither of them wanted that.

Lydia also wanted to be there with Stiles, but she had promised months ago that she would help out with the school's bake-sale to help the World Wildlife Fund save the Leatherback Turtle. She had volunteered to set up tables, sell baked goods, and paint posters. Her mathematics and persuasion skills were absolutely essential to selling items and making correct change. He wouldn't ask her to back out of a good cause when those poor little animals were counting on her, would he?

"What about me?" he whined on Friday night. "I'm an endangered species!"

"Maybe we'll raise funds for you next year." She winked and kissed his cheek. "I'll see if I can score you some chocolate-chip cookies."

Scott bailed too. He stopped by that morning to bring Stiles the comic books he had requested (Sheriff Stilinski was useless for the task; besides Superman and Batman, he couldn't identify a single superhero, and hardly knew those DC giants in their contemporary forms), but he left as quickly as he had arrived. He claimed he had made other plans.

"Plans that don't include _me?_ " Stiles couldn't believe it. It had to be a Kira-thing.

"I promised my mom I'd help her with something."

"Isn't your mom working today?"

"She is...that's why she needs me to do this, um, thing for her."

"Oh," Stiles sighed. "Guess I'll see you later, man."

"Take it easy, bro." Stiles waved off the suggestion and Scott left hurriedly. Sheriff Stilinski removed his jacket, grabbed the TV remote from Stiles, and settled into a chair.

"Should I be offended that you'd clearly rather spend time with anyone _but_ me?"

"You're my dad," Stiles said by way of explanation, grabbing unsuccessfully for the remote. "I'm a teenager. I'm genetically designed to want to spend time with people my own age. You know, people who weren't alive during the Civil War."

"How old do you think I am?"

"I'm just saying: don't take it personally. Besides, I live with you. We see each other all the time."

Sheriff Stilinski harrumphed in disagreement. "I feel like I need an appointment to talk to my own son. I barely see you anymore. You're always off God-knows-where doing God-knows-what. You keep secrets from me. I hardly know you."

Stiles stopped wrestling for the remote and lowered his hands into his lap. An awkward silence spanned in the distance between them. Sheriff Stilinski stared blankly at the screen, Stiles at the open window. Finally the sheriff handed him the clicker. "Here, you choose a show."

They watched reruns of _Cops_ on A &E. Stiles didn't complain any further about his friends and tried to enjoy the time with his dad. His father was right – they hardly saw each other and never spent quality time hanging out, unless Stiles showed up at the station or they bumped into each other at a crime-scene or crossed paths here at the hospital. He didn't know who was at fault – maybe no one was to blame – but he _did_ miss his father. Missed playing catch in the front yard and Labor Day camping trips; missed Sunday morning brunches at Jean's Diner and watching wrestling with the sound off, dubbing their own silly dialogue; missed driving around in the cruiser, acting as his father's wing-man.

Stiles loved his father more than anyone on earth, and he knew his father loved him just as deeply, if not more. Their love for one another was intense and co-dependent. Sometimes it frightened Stiles. If he lost his dad, or if the sheriff lost his son, how would they survive? How would the world keep spinning? They would cease to function, cease to live. He wondered if it was bad to love and need another person that much.

Stiles maintained a running commentary throughout the show, laughing at perps and gauging what his father would have done in the same instance. His voice quickly became raw and hoarse, and he stopped. It was pointless. His father was obviously distracted. He kept checking his phone – and checking out of the conversation.

"Is everything alright?" Stiles asked.

"Yes." The sheriff shoved his phone into his pants' pocket. Stiles could read his father well enough to know it was a lie. Stilinski, as he was wont to do, changed the subject. "How are you feeling? You look pale. Are you tired? Maybe you should get some sleep."

"All I do is sleep."

"Then maybe-" Sheriff Stilinski was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in!" he called. Agent Pierce appeared from the hallway, dressed in civilian's clothes – though even dressed-down his style could not be described as 'casual' – and dark shades. He was a walking, talking federal cliche. Sheriff Stilinski stood and shook his hand. "How are you, Jason?"

"Fine. Thank you, Sheriff. I've been reassigned. I thought I would come by and say goodbye before I left. How are you feeling, Stiles?" Pierce stepped forward and shook the boy's hand.

"I won't be doing somersaults anytime soon."

Pierce's glance grazed over his plastered leg. "No, I should suppose not – but you're certainly fortunate. Escaped the clutches of Marshall Landry not once but twice. You must have been born under a lucky star."

"Yeah, being kidnapped twice by the same deranged wacko and nearly having my insides torn out. I'm _really_ lucky."

"You've been reassigned?" Sheriff Stilinski interjected quickly, shooting Stiles a warning glare.

Pierce nodded. "Cozy little desk job back in Washington."

 _Ouch._ Sheriff Stilinski understood what that kind of reassignment meant – and what it could do to a guy. "Higher-ups thought you were too close to Santiago to handle the case?"

"Yes. They're sending in a couple greenhorns to take over. I have spent years tracking Landry; I know him better than anyone. They suspect he's heading north, but they're wrong. Leave California because of a few high school kids? Not in Marshall's personality. They're idiots." Pierce clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. Sheriff Stilinski's face was an unreadable mask; Stiles tried to mirror his expression. Pierce inhaled through his nostrils. "I apologize. Of course I accept my government's reassignment and trust their judgement. If they believe I would be best suited to Washington, who am I to disagree?"

"Maybe this is for the best," Stilinski offered. Better than spending the next decade of his life searching for a killer who was already dead.

Pierce nodded curtly. "As I said, I've merely come to pay my respects to you and Stiles before I leave Beacon Hills. I feel I owe you a great debt. I'm only sorry our time together has ended this way."

Sheriff Stilinski shook Pierce's hand again. "We should be the ones thanking you, Agent Pierce, for your service." Pierce graciously accepted his thanks with a nod.

Pierce cleared his throat and inquired politely, "Sheriff, I wonder if I might have a moment alone with your son. I feel partially responsible for the events he has suffered." Sheriff Stilinski looked to Stiles for his okay. Pierce, with his stiff and professional demeanor, wasn't exactly Stiles' favorite person – especially without the compassionate Santiago by his side to balance his personality out – but Stiles nodded his assent. The man may not be warm and fuzzy, but he was dedicated and good at his job. It wasn't fair to see his case end this way. Stiles had really liked Agent Santiago, and he felt he owed it to her, and the lasting kindness she had shown him, to help her partner find some closure in her murder.

"Okay. I'll be down in the cafeteria getting coffee. Sty, do you want anything?"

 _A doughnut._ He desperately craved a sweet, sugary, carb-filled doughnut, but the nurses had him on a strict – mostly mushy – diet he knew his father wouldn't stray from. "A banana," he requested instead, because despite being nutritious bananas were both soft, solid, and delicious – and a fun color.

"I'll be back shortly." Sheriff Stilinski ducked out of the room. He felt weird leaving his son alone with another man. A dark cloud settled over him as he walked down the corridor, waited for an elevator, and descended three floors to where the cafeteria, gift shop, and a MacDonald's (of all possible restaurants) were located. He paused to peruse a display window of cute, cuddly teddy bears wearing multicolored bow-ties. Big, bold words on the bows exclaimed "It's a girl!," "It's a boy!," "Happy Birthday!," "Get Well Soon!," and "Good luck!"

He debated buying one for Stiles. Despite having received a mountain of well-wishes and gifts, Stiles had not received one from his father. But Stiles was seventeen, not _seven,_ and Stilinski hardly felt he needed a plush toy to communicate his desire for his son to get better. At least, he hoped he didn't. He wasn't up-to-date on many twenty-first century conventions and the social expectations of teenage boys. Raising a teenager didn't come with a manual, and even if it did, he doubted there would be a chapter addressing "What To Do If Your Child Is Nearly Raped and Killed by A Supernatural Creature: see Chapter Seven, 'Identifying the Differences Between Demon Possession and Hormones,' for further study."

Sheriff Stilinski skipped the gift shop and headed into the cafeteria. He bought a medium-sized cup of weak coffee, a soggy ham sandwich, and a banana from Bertha, the cashier. He and Bertha were on a first-name basis, since as of Sunday night the cafeteria had practically become a second home and base of operations for him. She smiled and asked after Stiles. He thanked her for her concern and wished her good luck at her bingo tournament that evening.

Sheriff Stilinski claimed a table hidden in a corner beside a fake potted plant, and crammed a quarter of the sandwich into his mouth. "Where's the fire?" Stiles would joke at supper, laughing as his father inhaled his meal. It used to bother and disgust Claudia, the way he shoveled food into his mouth; she couldn't understand why he didn't take his time and enjoy what he was eating. But he was always in a rush, in case a call came in and he needed to respond. Police emergencies often interrupted his meals and family-time, and – sometimes – those emergencies _did_ happen to be fires.

As he chewed distractedly, not tasting the thin processed ham and globs of mayo, the dark cloud hovering over Sheriff Stilinski grew, along with his pity for Pierce. The man would never know Marshall Landry was dead. He would live with Marshall's shadow hanging over him, believing the man who had killed his partner and all those young boys was still at large. Maybe it would slowly drive him crazy, like Chinese water torture, all those doubts and fears slowly, constantly, dripping into his head until he finally lost it, became one of those obsessed lunatics who lives in darkened decrepit rooms with newspaper cutouts glued to the walls, searching for nonexistent patterns and trails, driving his career into the ground, ranting and raving to be reassigned to a case that could have no conclusion.

Poor Stiles, on the other hand, believed the case _was_ closed – over and done, _finito,_ end of story. Marshall was dead, his vampire minions taken care of, justice delivered for all the gruesome murders of late. Stiles thought he was finally free of Marshall's desire for him, safe from the man's power and touch – and Sheriff Stilinski wanted to keep it that way. He hated lying to his son – especially when he knew Stiles could tell something was amiss – but he had to protect him. If he ever told Stiles about this third vampire, he would wait until long after the creature was dead. Months from now, maybe years. He'd be on his death-bed, and he would finally tell Stiles about the other person Marshall had transformed.

He couldn't tell him now. Stiles' condition was fragile. He needed to be sheltered and stress-free if he was going to heal. _Believing_ he was safe – the mentality of it all – was just as important as his actual physical safety. Ferguson had warned Stilinski of possible psychological consequences. Stiles may already feel afraid and helpless. The presence of another vampire would only validate his anxiety and paranoia.

However, Sheriff Stilinski had to consider, if Stiles found out about the vampire before John told him, he might never trust his father again. A risk Sheriff Stilinski had to take. Stiles' trust was a sacrifice he would make in order to keep his son safe.

Stilinski wouldn't even be worried about Stiles finding out if Scott was a better liar. He flailed under pressure, his falsehoods lame and flimsy. He'd almost blown their cover this morning, unable to hold it together under Stiles' easiest of questions. At least Lydia and Malia were good liars. The sheriff could count on them at any rate.

Sheriff Stilinski wondered if there was a special level of hell for parents who convinced their crippled son's friends to ditch him and then lie about it?

Probably, but it was another necessary evil. He needed the teens' help catching this killer, and he couldn't let Stiles know anything about it, even if it meant jeopardizing the boy's feelings. If Stiles knew the circumstances, surely he would understand. His heart was too big, too loving and loyal, for him to remain angry for long.

Sheriff Stilinski finished his sandwich and decided to check in with the Pack. His phone rang as he was digging it out of his pocket. He verified the call display and answered. "Parrish, what have you got for me?"

"You were right, Sheriff. One of the girls finally came forward." Stilinski could hear paper rustling. "Danielle Reegan, 26. She and Kitty were close friends and worked the same area. They looked out for each other. Danielle decided to talk when she heard what this guy had done to her friend, and that he might target other girls. She claimed Kitty climbed into a dark utility vehicle on Saturday night around eleven. It headed down First Street and turned left. She didn't get a good look at the john, except to say that he was white and clean-shaven, mid-to-late thirties." Great, that only narrowed it down to a couple million people. "Sharply dressed and wearing sunglasses. That was the last she saw or heard of Kitty."

"Did she catch a license plate number?"

"There wasn't one." Of course not. "Plate was obscured."

"Thanks, Parrish. Keep on it. Maybe someone else saw something."

"Yes, sir."

It wasn't much to go on, but at least now Stilinski knew the third vampire was definitely male. White. Wearing sunglasses.

A light-bulb began to flicker in the sheriff's brain, but didn't quite turn on.

His cell-phone rang again, disrupting his thoughts. "Hello?"

"Hey, Sheriff Stilinski. It's Scott."

"Hi, Scott. Where are you? Did you guys find anything?"

Yesterday the rotting and brutalized body of Katherine "Kitty" Williams, 22, convicted on charges of prostitution and possession, had been discovered in a pond outside of town. An unsuspecting fisherman, in hip-waders and vest, had come across her bloated and putrid corpse while trolling for striped bass. Despite the state of her body, the medical examiner was able to determine the cause of death as strangulation, though she had suffered extreme blood loss. She had been bled dry, and filled with water. The water in her lungs and organs, along with another external mass, had weighed her down enough to keep her concealed for a time. The vampire they were dealing with was smart. Careful. Able to cover his tracks.

Sheriff Stilinski had asked Scott and the girls to investigate the crime-scene to see if they could find any clues the police had missed. The murder had occurred days ago, but he hoped Scott's keen werewolf senses might be able to detect what human ears, eyes, and noses could not.

"We didn't find anything at the scene, but I picked up on a scent. It was faded and indistinct, especially since new vampires don't smell as strongly as Head vampires and still smell a lot like their human selves, but I _was_ able to get a lock on it. We tracked it back into town to a hotel."

"Which hotel?"

"The Magdalene on South Street. We've managed to sneak up to the third floor, and we're-" In the background, a girl suddenly started screaming. "Lydia! What is it? Lydia, what's wrong?"

A vampire targeting victims with criminal records. A well-hidden body in a pond and witnesses too afraid of the police to talk. A trail of blood to Magdalene Hotel. Santiago's body in Room 312. A clean-shaven man in dark shades.

The light-bulb flared on.

"Stiles!" Sheriff Stilinski jumped up, knocking the table and spraying coffee. A few nearby patrons glared maliciously as he raced from the cafeteria, abandoning his mess and a single, bright yellow banana.

There was a small group of people waiting for an elevator. Stilinski didn't have time. He veered off to the right and threw open the door to the emergency stairs, taking three steps at a time. His feet clanged and echoed. _I'm coming, Stiles._ "Get here as soon as you can!" he commanded into the phone over Lydia's wailing. "The vampire is here! He's in the hospital!"

And he had invited him into Stiles' room.


	20. Chapter 20: Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

**Chapter Twenty: A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing**

Pierce soundlessly closed the door behind Sheriff Stilinski. He strode the perimeter of the room and stooped over Stiles' gifts. He lifted a card with a scenic photograph of a lake and glanced over the inscription inside. Stiles watched him wearily. "I have always found 'Get Well' cards ridiculous," the agent admitted. "What else would a patient strive to do? If they could suddenly make themselves well, as the sender so earnestly demands, wouldn't they do it?"

"I guess."

Pierce replaced and re-positioned the card. He picked up another depicting a bandaged teddy-bear on its cover - "Isn't that sweet?" - scanned inside, and flipped it over to examine the back. "Is that what a folded piece of paper goes for these days? That's highway robbery. Maybe I'm in the wrong business." Stiles wondered if the man was trying to be funny. If so, he sucked at humor. Pierce returned the card and went to the window. "Do you mind if I close these blinds? My eyes are sensitive to light."

Stiles shrugged. Pierce closed the blinds, blocking out the bright afternoon shine, but the loss of the sunlight hardly detracted from the light in the room. The overhead bulbs only had two settings: blinding and off. "Ah, much better." He folded his hands behind his back and paced the length of the floor.

"Is that why you wear sunglasses indoors?" Stiles asked, trying to decide if this was a habit Pierce had picked up just recently. "Light sensitivity? Because they don't make you look as cool and mysterious as you think they do. Less 'Men in Black' and more creepy-stalker-guy."

Pierce barked a laugh. "What a sharp tongue you have, Stiles. Not afraid to speak your mind. I suppose it isn't any wonder Landry favored you more than the others."

Stiles shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like being reminded that he was a special favorite of that man. He wanted to be the type of guy that attracted beautiful, passionate, headstrong girls – not lunatic serial killers looking for a play-date.

"Are you in discomfort?" Pierce asked, stepping forward to help.

"No," Stiles lied, using his elbow to prop himself up. He was sore from lying in one position for so long. He didn't want anyone touching him, moving him, fussing over him – especially not some dude with a stick up his ass.

Stiles was starting to regret sending his father away. He wished Pierce would hurry up, get to the point, say whatever it was he had come to say, and leave. Stiles didn't know what the guy wanted from him; if he wanted information, Stiles couldn't give it to him. If he wanted to apologize or express sympathy, he'd better spit it out or send a card like any normal person. Stiles didn't know how to talk to Pierce. All his usual witticisms bounced off the man's tough outer shell and fell flat. Disrespecting authority wasn't as much fun if he couldn't get a rise out of him.

Stiles especially did _not_ want to talk about Marshall Landry. He wanted to forget anyone by that name had ever existed.

The Prince of Sarcasm was at a loss for words.

Agent Pierce noted Stiles' silent defiance. He removed his blazer, tossed it casually over a chair, and went to the window. Stiles didn't know what he was looking at, since the closed blinds concealed the view. Maybe he was counting dust particles, preparing to write Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital up for improper hygiene protocols.

Pierce continued to speak, and Stiles decided that gazing at nothing, keeping his back to his listener, was a coping mechanism, making it easier to say what was on his mind. Stiles studied the width of the agent's shoulders and the muscle tone subtly visible under his cotton shirt. He had probably been a jock in high-school. The all-American quarterback. He probably bled red, white, and blue.

Stiles, for the first time, realized that Pierce, despite all his stiffness and rectitude, could probably inflict serious damage on a person. The guy was built like a tank – sturdy and strong. While Stiles had never seen Pierce fire his weapon, he imagined Pierce handled both his gun and his fists with deadly skill. He'd hate to be the one on the wrong side of the agent in combat.

"Agent Santiago and I were assigned to the Landry case five years ago," Pierce launched into his narrative. "She had experience working with the Special Victims Unit and sexual violence cases; I had a background in homicide and criminology. I knew of Elana – saw her around, heard of the amazing work she was doing – but we had never worked a case together, until Landry. Our combined skill sets made us the perfect pair for tracking him down. We made a good team despite being so different in our methods and personalities. Maybe our differences were what made us strong. Do you know what I mean?"

Yes, Stiles did. Odd combinations no one thought would work, two people...

"We poured all our time and energy into finding Landry. He was still relatively small-time when we were assigned the case, but he had the makings of becoming one of he worst – or perhaps I should say 'the best' – serial killers in modern America. We would close in, and he would disappear. He was always two steps ahead of us. He was always able to find new, young, vulnerable victims. The bodies piled up around us. I began to feel that each new death was blood on my own hands. We couldn't catch a break. Until we came to Beacon Hills, and one boy, _one_ out of dozens, made it out alive. Helped us bring Landry down and send him away for good. At least, we _thought_ we had put him away forever.

"After a long and grueling court session, Elana and I were finally free to begin working on other cases. But I couldn't get into any criminal's head the way I had Landry's. I had spent more than three years focused on catching this guy. The sick bastard was unlike any case I had ever worked before. A twisted mind that interested me as much as it repulsed me. Elana and I used the knowledge we had gained from the Landry case and began utilizing what we had learned to track down other predators. The last two years we have continued to work closely, side-by-side, and somewhere during that time-"

"Oh god, please don't tell me you two hooked up."

"When you spend that much time with another person, almost all your waking hours, it's inevitable you will develop strong feelings for each other. Whether those feelings are resentful or intimate-" Stiles gagged. "She understood me better than anyone else in my life ever had. She had known the same horrors, the same frustrations, the same hollow joys. In the dead of night, she would pull me out of nightmares, her touch warm and gentle-" oh god, this was way more information than Stiles cared to hear - "and in her eyes I could see the same darkness that haunted me.

"Landry's presence followed us like a shadow. I couldn't believe it when he escaped. It was impossible. Where could Marshall find the strength to take down two armed guards? We knew he would return for you. Everything in his psyche said he would. It was no longer a matter of _finding_ Landry but of _waiting_ for him. Waiting for him to make his move, so we could catch him. Waiting for some stubborn teenager to get his head out of his ass and listen to those who have more experience than him."

"Hey!" Stiles took offense at this last comment.

"Landry didn't make me wait long. He came to visit me."

Stiles gasped. "What?"

"He was different. More self-assured. More relaxed. Fearless. I was locking my car up for the night, and there he was, leaning against a street lamp. He told me how flattered he was by my attention. He claimed we had a special bond. I was inside his head, I knew him, I understood him. When I told him he was under arrest, he laughed. He knew something I didn't. I thought he had come to kill me, but he hadn't. He said he wanted to reward my efforts. To give me a gift."

As he spoke, Pierce's tone became increasingly nonchalant, almost disinterested in its own superior knowledge. It reminded Stiles too much of Marshall. Something felt weird, off in a vaguely alarming way. Stiles' instincts were usually right, and he knew whatever the agent had to say or do next wasn't good. Slowly Stiles reached for the red, nurse call button at his side, careful not to make any sudden moves or draw Pierce's attention.

"I don't remember anything else until I woke up. The world had shifted; I felt like a new man. I had to see Elana, to tell her what had happened. My revelation. For the sake of appearances, we had booked two hotel rooms, but we were staying together in 312. She was getting out of the shower when I came in. She said she had begun to worry when I hadn't returned, hadn't checked in. She was foolish to worry about me. I felt wonderful. She should have worried about herself."

Stiles' hand closed around the button. Pierce appeared suddenly at his side. His fingers locked around Stiles' wrist, crushing bone and tissue. Stiles dropped the button reflexively and cried out in pain.

"I was too excited. I lost control. I had only wanted to show her, to explain to her, but my impulses took over. I desired her too much...I killed her." Stiles wrestled against Pierce's iron grip, but his injuries limited his mobility. He could see his own reflection in Pierce's mirrored shades. His own helplessness. Desperately, he reached up to the agent's face, and ripped off his glasses in one swift motion.

Blood red eyes glared back at him.

"You're a vampire!" He should have figured it out sooner.

"You knew, you _all_ knew Landry wasn't human anymore. How could Elana and I possibly fight what we didn't know existed?"

"You wouldn't have believed me."

"Maybe not." Pierce put his palm flat against Stiles' chest and pressed down, pushing the air from his lungs and re-cracking the barely mended ribs. Stiles sputtered for breath. "After I killed her, Marshall came to me. He spelled your name on the mirror in blood. A message for your father. You were next, were _his._ He wanted the sole pleasure of killing you, but he wanted my help getting close to your father. To keep my hand on the investigate, to make sure the tape made it safely into his hands, and when the time came, to gain access into your household and kill him. I must admit, I rather like your father. He's a good man. Maybe I'll spare him in the end – but there are far worse things than killing a man. Now that Landry's dead, it's left to me to finish what he started. My best asset has always been my willingness to follow orders. He couldn't handle one teenage boy, but your friends aren't here to save you this time."

Stiles opened his mouth to scream. "Hel-"

Pierce's hand moved from Stiles' ribcage to his mouth. Air caught in Stiles' throat with nowhere to go. He choked it back down and exhaled forcibly through his nostrils. "Shh. We don't want to involve anyone else, Stiles. We don't want to draw too much attention."

Pierce tightened his grasp. Pain shot along Stiles' jaw. Bruises, perfect black fingerprints, appeared on his skin. He cried out, but no sound emerged from beneath the large hand. He tried to free himself, but it was useless. Pierce pinned his head and wrist down against the bed. The vampire leaned over him, and Stiles' eyes widened in terror. "I'm like _him_ now. I finally understand. The fear, the blood, the control, extinguishing a life with your bare hands, the mastery over death – it's _amazing_." A cruel smile curled Pierce's lips. "I bet you wish you had taken my advice and entered into protective custody."

This was it. This was the end. Stiles was dead.

There was a loud commotion in the hallway: "Stiles!" Pierce looked from Stiles to the door, and back down again. He had to make a decision: he could either momentarily release Stiles and barricade the door, or keep his hold on the boy, making sure he didn't escape before Pierce could finish his task. He looked down at Stiles, at the wide brown eyes staring tearfully up at him. He didn't want to rush this, but he couldn't afford to make any mistakes. Stiles Stilinski could not get away again.

"John, what is it?" Melissa McCall called worriedly, as Sheriff Stilinski barrelled down the corridor at top speed.

"Keep everyone away from this room," his gruff voice commanded loudly. "We have a Code White." _Code White: Aggressive & Violent Person. _The confusion blanketing Melissa's face was swiftly replaced by a sweeping horror. The only person she had seen enter Stiles' room other than Sheriff Stilinski was the federal agent from the other night. She recognized him as he walked past the front desk. He had been wearing sunglasses. He had been wearing the same ones on Sunday night. A fact she had mentally registered as odd at the time, but had been too focused on other matters to care about. What if...?

Melissa ran forward to help, but the sheriff motioned her away. "Just keep this area clear," he reiterated, drawing his weapon. He opened the door slowly, thankful patients' rooms couldn't lock from the inside. Kicking it open would have better suited his mood, but John Stilinski hadn't been promoted to sheriff by being impulsive and brazen. He stepped cautiously into the room, leading with his gun.

Stiles' bed was empty.

Sheriff Stilinski's heart dropped. He scanned the room, clearing it of any signs of danger. He lowered his gun. The blinds were closed, blowing back and forth slightly with the breeze outside. He dashed to the window. It was open. He glanced below into the parking lot, but he could see nothing but the usual influx and outflow of citizens. "Damn." He'd never be able to make it down there quickly enough.

Sheriff Stilinski stood a moment at the window, watching more closely as people came and went. Their paces were leisurely and steady; by the sidewalk, a group of three stood smoking the cigarettes they were banned on site; a mother pushing a stroller sauntered to her Subaru; a young man, his arm in a cast, was waiting for his friend to bring the car around. There was no chaos, panic, or mad-scramble, such as one would expect from a vampire crashing out a fourth-story window, carrying a bruised boy with a leg cast.

Pierce was smarter than that. He was careful, exact. He would try to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He was still in the hospital. He had to be. But the only other possible exit, aside from a forty foot drop, was the door. Unless vampires had the power of invisibility or to manifest matter through walls, they couldn't have slipped past the sheriff undetected.

Unless Pierce had already disappeared with Stiles before Sheriff Stilinski had stepped out of the stairwell. If that was the case, they could be long gone. Pierce could have smuggled Stiles out and loaded him into a vehicle. He'd have to wait for Scott and the others to arrive, hope they'd be able to track the scent. But, he knew, his son would be dead before they could reach him. Pierce wasn't Marshall. He wouldn't waste his time playing around. He'd kill Stiles before anyone had the chance to rescue him.

Sheriff Stilinski turned and scanned the room, searching for clues. His eyes fell on the bathroom door. It was closed. He knew it had been open when he left. There was no reason for it to be closed. Stiles couldn't get in there by himself, had no reason to be in there. He wasn't healed enough yet to use a toilet.

Sheriff Stilinski trained his gun on the door, and hunched into a defensive position. "I know you're in there, Pierce! Come out now!"

He was answered by a guttural laugh. He heard the click of the doorknob being turned, and the door swung open. Pierce stepped out triumphantly. His sunglasses were gone, and from across the room the sheriff could see the bright scarlet irises. "I should have known I couldn't fool you, Sheriff." He was holding Stiles at his side. The boy looked pale, and a fine perspiration coated his skin. All his weight was balanced on his one good leg, and his face was twisted in pain. He was trembling. He needed to be in bed. He wasn't well; his body was too weak. The only thing keeping Stiles from falling to the floor was the hand Pierce had locked around his mouth and jaw. Stiles dug his fingernails into Pierce's arm, more to keep himself upright than in an attempt to remove it.

"Let him go!"

"Are you feeling deja-vu? This reminds me of a similar scene two years ago. Of course, I was on the other side."

"Let him go!" Stilinski repeated.

"I can't do that, Sheriff. This all began with Stiles, and it needs to end with him."

"You're not Marshall. You don't need Stiles. He's just a boy."

"Come on, John. Don't be naive. Stiles has made decisions in this case, just like we all have. Justice needs to be carried out. Retribution."

"Landry is dead. Justice has been served."

"Not for me. Not for Elana."

"You killed Elana." As soon as the words left his mouth, Sheriff Stilinski knew they were true.

"I wouldn't have killed her if I hadn't been changed into _this._ If Marshall hadn't been back here in Beacon Hills, looking for _Stiles;_ if Stiles had gone into protective custody like _I told him,_ we wouldn't have been in this cursed town. Once I finish here, I'll move on – a dark angel of death and justice. Imagine the criminals I'll be able to take down now. I'll be able to single-handedly clean the scum off our streets."

"You know that's not how justice works. We aren't vigilantes, Jason. We've dedicated ourselves to Law and Order."

"No, John. We're soldiers. We do what we're told – and look at where that's gotten us. I'm forty-one, and what do I have? A crappy apartment, a house-plant I can't keep alive, an ex-wife in Idaho, and a legion of ghosts living in my head. You're a lonely widower who drowns his pain in work and whiskey. The only tie you have in the entire world is a son you never see."

Sheriff Stilinski's jaw tensed. He kept his voice from breaking as he pleaded, "If you need retribution, take me instead."

Pierce's eyes wrinkled in pity. "You know I can't, John."

Sheriff Stilinski just needed to keep him talking until Scott and the others arrived. Maybe he wasn't a match for a vampire, but there was no way Pierce would be able to take on all of them. From the hallway, he could hear Melissa ordering people away from the room and attempting to contact Deputy Parrish on the phone.

Pierce shifted Stiles in front of his body. He cocked the boy's head to the side, exposing the fair flesh of his neck. Stiles' chest heaved heavily with each breath. His eyes sought his father's, and the forgiveness and resignation John saw in their depths frightened him more than the terror he saw there. "Pierce!" Sheriff Stilinski levelled his weapon with Pierce's forehead. "Don't do it!"

"Sheriff, you brought a knife to a gun fight. Your bullets won't work on me."

The sheriff looked to Stiles for permission. Stiles' nod was almost imperceptible, but the sheriff read the confidence on his face. He believed in his father. Sheriff Stilinski needed to have the same faith in himself. His arm was steady as he took aim. "We'll see."

He fired.


	21. Chapter 21: Armageddon

**Chapter Twenty-One: Armageddon**

Stiles felt the speed of the bullet as it whizzed over his head and lodged into Pierce's brain. Outside the room, people started screaming. The vampire staggered back a step under the impact, but did not release his hold on Stiles. The wound was gaping and gory. Sheriff Stilinski paused only a fraction of a second, assessing the damage the bullet had caused, and then advanced, emptying his entire clip into the vampire's face. Around Stiles, the room exploded with thunder and the stench of gun powder. He tried to remain as still as possible, so he wouldn't accidentally be hit.

Stiles could feel bits of flesh splattering onto the back of his neck as Pierce's face was destroyed. He didn't dare look up. He stared at his father, his hard eyes and steady movements. Emerging from a cloud of smoke like an action hero. Man, his dad was a bad-ass.

Pierce's face was a mess of bloody, shapeless pulp. He stumbled backward, unable to hold himself upright under the steady stream of gunfire. The bullets wouldn't injure him, but the mutilation of his face was irritating and uncomfortable. He could feel bits of tissue rupturing and gushing. Felt his teeth and bone shatter. He temporarily lost his vision. He couldn't help but loosen his grip on Stiles.

Stiles teetered forward, falling face first toward the floor. Sheriff Stilinski's arm shot out and caught him. He unceremoniously dragged Stiles away from Pierce and shoved his son behind him. Stiles collapsed onto the floor, cowering behind his father's legs and the end of the bed. The sheriff tossed his gun aside, and extracted the bowie knife he had sheathed on his left side. In California, it was legal to carry an unconcealed knife, and the sheriff had capitalized on this law – carrying his old hunting knife at his side – since he learned a vampire was stalking around Beacon Hills. It wasn't a traditional wooden stake, but the blade felt heavy and familiar in his hand.

Pierce slowly raised his head. A strangled and gurgled sound emerged from this throat. He looked straight at the sheriff, and Stilinski watched as his flesh healed itself around the bullets, his eyes growing back into their sockets, teeth reappearing and straightening. It was a scene from his most horrific childhood nightmares, almost throwing him off his guard. But the murderous look in the vampire's eyes snapped him out of his repulsion.

Pierce was pissed.

Sheriff Stilinski gripped his knife in his right hand, raised it high, and lunged at Pierce. At the same time, the agent released a fearsome growl and pounced on the sheriff. Stilinski's blade missed its intended target – the heart – and scratched Pierce's upper arm. Pierce's shoulder drove into Sheriff Stilinski with all the force of a speeding train. He staggered back, breathless. He could tell his collarbone had fractured. He gritted his teeth and slashed the air with his knife. Pierce easily dodged and chopped down on the sheriff's arm. The blade dropped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

Miraculously, Sheriff Stilinski was able to miss Pierce's next hit. An uppercut aimed at his jaw that would have given him brain damage. At his feet, Stiles was trying not to get trampled, curling into a ball to make himself as small as possible.

Sheriff Stilinski was unarmed. He had a stun gun, but considering the uselessness of his bullets, he doubted it would work. There was nothing within his reach. He knew he had to keep Stiles safe, no matter what it took. Pierce charged him. Sheriff Stilinski met the attack, desperately throwing himself at the agent. They grappled with each other, and in a fair fight they would have been equally matched. But Pierce had the supernatural advantage of inhuman strength, speed, and reflexes. He effortlessly flung the sheriff to the ground.

Then Pierce was on top of him. Sheriff Stilinski stared up at the familiar face, distorted in wrath and hunger, eyes as red and fiery as Satan himself, fangs sharp and loaded, and time seemed to stop. The world blurred and became irrelevant. In that split-second, the sheriff felt detached and indifferent. He couldn't believe this was real life, his life. He couldn't possibly have gone from defending his son from the make-believe monsters under his bed to fighting a vampire to the death. It was too absurd.

Something akin to reluctance and pity flashed briefly across Pierce's face, and Stilinski recognized the man who had existed before the monster.

Then Pierce sank his teeth into Sheriff Stilinski's shoulder. Pain he hadn't known was possible flooded his entire body. Simultaneously biting cold and burning hot. Fire incinerating his veins. Sheriff Stilinski had been shot before, had known the agony of metal ripping through his flesh – that was nothing compared to this. He could feel Pierce's teeth inside him, could feel his blood being sucked out and replaced with poison. He thought he must be in hell. Death couldn't be worse than this.

Screams filled the room, but he was too consumed in suffering to recognize the voice as his own.

"Dad!" Tears streamed down Stiles' cheeks. He used his arms to drag himself along the floor, inch by slow and painful inch, every fiber of his being protesting. He knew he'd never reach his father. His memory was transported back to over a year ago: the kanima's bite paralyzing him as he hauled his useless carcass along the station floor, Matt looming over his father. Stiles couldn't reach him. Matt delivered a swift punch, and knocked Sheriff Stilinski unconscious. Stiles broken by the sight of his father's unmoving form, his own powerlessness to protect him. How easily Matt could have killed his father. He could have become another of the kanima's victims, Stiles forced to watch. The mechanic's death as he waited for his Jeep, unable to move, fountains of blood, only a million times worse because the blood spilled would have belonged to someone he loved.

Sheriff Stilinski heard Stiles yelling. One clear thought dislodged from his brain and broke through the pain: Stiles experienced this same agony when Marshall bit him; this same suffering on top of his already long list of injuries. How could he have allowed anyone to do this to his baby boy?

The noises Pierce made as he drank disgusted Stiles. He could smell his father's blood, see it pooling through his shirt and dripping down his shoulder. He had to do something. He couldn't sit by and let this happen. He couldn't watch his father die. The television remote was under the bed, thrown there when Pierce wrenched him from the sheets and into the bathroom. Stiles seized it and hurled it at Pierce. The gadget bounced off the vampire's back. He didn't even pause or slow his slurping.

Stiles searched frantically around him for something – anything – he could throw at Pierce; something he could use to draw his attention away from the sheriff. He saw his father's bowie knife. He stretched his arm, his fingers brushing against the blade. He ran his index and middle finger over the blade, a miniature man running the race of his life, and inched the knife closer towards himself. Finally it was close enough. His hand closed around the handle.

Only what could he do with it?

There was no way he could lift himself up, let alone make his way over to Pierce and summon the strength required to plunge the knife through his heart. He could already see the life draining from his father's eyes. If the lids closed over those beloved green irises, Stiles knew he would never see them again. He couldn't let his father die. This was all his fault. If anyone deserved to die, it was him.

Stiles knew what he had to do. He set the blade against his wrist and cut a zigzag down his arm. He hoped whatever was in his blood that Marshall had found so alluring and delicious would be just as appetizing and irresistible to other vampires. Marshall had praised him for being special; hopefully that same specialness would tempt Pierce.

The warm ruby liquid trickled down Stiles' arm and rained onto the clean white tile. The slurping noises stopped. Pierce lifted his head and sniffed the air. Curious. He whipped around so quickly he was just a blur in Stiles' vision. The sheriff's blood was smeared over his mouth and chin; his face deformed. A primeval evil of pure base instincts. Pierce caught Stiles' wrist and brought it up to his face. He sniffed it and licked the blood, smacking his lips to better appreciate the taste. A connoisseur of hemoglobin. Stiles saw carnal desire flash in Pierce's eyes. A shiver ran down his spine in trepidation of what he knew was coming next, his body already receding from the imminent pain.

Stiles only hoped his father would be able to rouse himself enough, while Pierce was killing him, to be able to stake the vampire and save himself.

Pierce bit into Stiles' arm. He couldn't stop the scream that escaped.

Sheriff Stilinski was floating at the edge of unconsciousness. The agony had subsided for the moment, and his body felt strangely weightless. Above him was nothing but a pale, blurry light. He wondered if this was it: he was dead and awakening in limbo. How many trials of purgatory would he need to endure before he could be reunited with Claudia? God, how he missed her. He hadn't gotten the chance to say goodbye. He had held another woman's hand as she descended into oblivion, but he hadn't been there to hold his own wife's hand. He knew Claudia didn't hold that against him. She had always been understanding when it came to his job. When the nights were rough and full of terror, when frustrating and gruesome and hopeless cases crossed his desk, and he wanted to quit then and there, hand in his resignation notice, she was the one who encouraged him, who built him up. She believed he could do anything. She trusted him to protect the people of Beacon Hills, to look after their family, their son.

When times were tough, sometimes John would swear he could hear Claudia's voice calling to him, leading him down the right path. Keeping him from going under, from drowning. Helping him raise their son. He could see so much of her in Stiles.

 _Stiles!_

Sheriff Stilinski pulled himself away from the brink, snapping back into reality. His ears were filled with the sound of his son's screams. His eyes struggled to focus on the fuzzy shapes in front of him. Pierce was holding Stiles in his arms. He curved the boy into his body, but Stiles kicked and bucked with his unbroken leg; his torso writhed in pain. Pierce clutched him close, nestling Stiles' head into his chest. His lips were sealed around Stiles' wrist. Sheriff Stilinski watched as Pierce lifted his head, breathed in satisfaction, and moved his mouth to Stiles' neck. His dexterous fingers traced Stiles' face, as the boy's screams subsided into whimpers. His spasms quieted. Pierce swallowed with relish.

Sheriff Stilinski was consumed with hatred. He tried to stand up, but his vision swam, and he tipped drunkenly. He caught himself on the side of the hospital bed and grabbed his head. The room spun around him in dizzying circles. _Pull yourself together, John!_ he berated himself. _If you don't suck it up and get through this, that lying bastard will kill your son._

This last thought opened a reservoir of strength in Sheriff Stilinski. He felt adrenalin pumping through his arteries, numbing his pain into nonexistence, aided by fear and love for his son. He and Stiles had come too far just to be killed by some Secret Service wannabe in dime store sunglasses and a polyester suit.

His bowie knife lay discarded beside the trash can, covered in Stiles' blood. He must have accidentally kicked it over there while Pierce was feasting. Sheriff Stilinski dove for it. Pierce was occupied enough not to notice or care about the sheriff's movements. John stood wobbily, stumbled the few steps separating him and Pierce, and raised the knife above his head. Pierce had just looked back at the sheriff, Stiles' blood coated his chin and jaw, a piece of the boy's clothing stuck at the edge of his mouth, when Sheriff Stilinski struck. He poured all his might into that downward stroke. The knife stabbed through Pierce's ribcage and pierced his blackened heart.

The agent shrieked and clutched at his chest. He exploded in a deluge of blood, tissue, and ash, showering down on Stiles and the sheriff. The knife clattered to the floor. Sheriff Stilinski panted from the exertion, and collapsed next to his son.

Stiles' eyes were closed. Sheriff Stilinski reached out and gathered his son into his arms. He wiped his hand over Stiles' face, clearing away the gore. "Stiles. Oh God, please. Stiles, please. Wake up. Open your eyes. Speak to me. C'mon Stiles." Sheriff Stilinski grabbed his handkerchief from his back pocket. He pressed the thick cotton to Stiles' wrist. He reached over Stiles, tore the top sheet off the bed, and held it to Stiles' neck. Stiles was frightfully pale. No, pale didn't adequately describe it. Stiles was without color, ashen and empty. Sheriff Stilinski wondered fearfully how much blood he had lost.

"Melissa! Melissa, help!" He shouted. "I need help!" He was crying, crying in a way he hadn't in a long time: hard and panicked, great silent heaves that shook his frame. "Please, God. Stiles, speak to me!" he pleaded brokenly. He hugged Stiles close to him, holding his boy to his chest tightly. Willing Stiles' with his heart-beat to keep breathing. Replacing the way Pierce and Marshall had held him; perverted and violent embraces forgotten in a loving one. Anchoring Stiles to the world of the living, absorbing particles of Stiles into himself and replacing them with his own soul. He could feel Stiles' faint heart-beat and it gave him hope.

Melissa appeared in the doorway. "John, what- Oh my God." Her hand flew to her mouth.

"Get a doctor! Hurry!"

Melissa hardened into a calm, levelheaded composure, pushing aside her personal feelings and shifting into emergency mode. They needed a doctor, and they needed blood – at least 75 pints, judging from the pallor of their skin. Maybe more if Stiles had lost as much as a victim of a car accident. Sheriff Stilinski's blood-type was O+, she recalled. Stiles was O-, just like Claudia - an unfortunately uncommon blood type, a universal donor but a singular receptor; even John couldn't give his son blood. The hospital never seemed to have enough O- on-hand. Stiles' surgery and encounter with Marshall had almost decimated their supply. She prayed there was something they could do.

Melissa disappeared at a run, yelling commands at orderlies and other personnel.

Sheriff Stilinski was unaware of the world. He rocked Stiles back and forth, begging him to wake up. Within seconds, they were surrounded by medical staff. A nurse reached out to take Stiles from him, and the sheriff gnashed his teeth at her. "Don't touch him!" he growled, his voice low and threatening. He was a wild, cornered animal protecting his young. No one was touching his son but him. "You can damn well do whatever it is you need to while I hold him."

The nurse protested, but Melissa cut her off. "Don't move, Stiles." He was safest, she knew, in his father's arms. As they worked, bandaging and reinserting tubes in his skin, Stiles began to stir. Sheriff Stilinski saw the faint flutter of his eyelids. He rubbed his thumb along Stiles' cheekbone. "Come on, Sty."

Stiles opened his eyes slowly. His father's face looked ghastly – but very much alive. "Dad?"

Sheriff Stilinski had to resist the urge to crush Stiles against him. Stiles' eyes, he suddenly decided, were the single most beautiful sight in the world. "Hey there, Buddy."

"Marshall...Pierce?"

"He's dead. They're both dead. It's over. It's all over." Hearing these words from his father, Stiles abruptly started to cry, though he wasn't sure why. Relief maybe, or an outpouring of pent-up emotion, a reaction to almost being killed – again – and how close he had come to losing his father.

About this time, the Pack burst through the door, Scott leading and Lydia at his heels. He could smell blood from the corridor. The Stilinski's were on the floor – both alive – the sheriff cradling Stiles in his arms. They were covered in blood, but Scott was relieved to smell that most of it didn't belong to them. Their cheeks were dirty and wet with tears. Even Sheriff Stilinski couldn't keep back the salty proof of his sorrow and relief. In low whispers, John murmured reassurances into his son's ear. "It's over, Stiles. It's all over. You're safe. I love you. You're safe."


	22. Chapter 22: The Boy Who Lived

**Chapter Twenty-Two: The Boy Who Lived**

 **Two Months Later**

Stiles waited outside the physiotherapy clinic for his father. He attended physio three times a week, and he always waited outside for his dad, despite Becky's insistence that he was more than welcome to wait inside where it was comfortable. She didn't want him to feel he needed to rush out the second his session ended. But Stiles didn't want to be in the clinic any longer than necessary. Becky and the other staff were friendly and attentive, but he could detect the pity they tried to conceal. He hated feeling like a wounded bird they had discovered. Between this building and the psychiatrist he was visiting twice a week, Stiles felt like a loser. Damaged, broken, useless, shabby. Pathetic. He didn't want to be the kind of person people looked at with pity, shaking their heads and declaring "What a shame. The poor boy. A right shame."

Stiles had told his father repeatedly that he didn't need either the physio or the mental therapy – that he was just fine, thank you very much – but the sheriff had been unrelenting. Anytime Stiles brought the issue up, Sheriff Stilinski would adopt that authoritative tone of voice that meant Stiles would never win the argument, and told Stiles he was going whether he liked it or not. Though Stiles was stubborn and obstinate by nature, Stiles did not fight his father on the matter. Behind the parental sternness, Stiles could see the anxiety hidden in the sheriff's eyes. A profound fear that had appeared around the time of Marshall's return and hadn't disappeared. Stiles knew his father was forcing him to attend these sessions out of love, and for this reason, and this reason alone, did he do as he was asked – with only the occasional complaint and whining. He had only one condition: he wanted a female physiotherapist.

Stiles leaned forward and balanced his weight on his crutches; he had mastered doing this in such a way that it alleviated the stress on his upper body, without driving the sticks into his armpits, and maintained his established equilibrium. He examined the toe of his sneaker, stained with the mud and blood he couldn't completely scrub out; the tip was scuffed from the time he had tripped over the curb in front of the high school and fallen face first onto the concrete sidewalk. The most embarrassing day of sophomore year; he had walked around with a scabby chin for over a week, and taken the worst Yearbook photo ever. Such was his life: a constant series of humiliation, one mortification after another. He should sell the rights for his life to network television to make a sitcom. If he was going to embarrass himself on a daily basis, he may as well get paid for it.

Just to the side of his right foot, Stiles noticed a quarter. He was debating whether twenty-five cents was worth the effort required to bend down and pick it up, when his father arrived in the police cruiser. "Alright there, Stiles?" the sheriff asked, stepping out of the car. He raised his eyebrow at the weird position into which Stiles had contorted himself.

"Fine." Stiles forgot the quarter and straightened. His father opened the passenger door and offered his hand to help Stiles in. Stiles ignored the proffered limb and tried to successfully maneuver himself. Settling into a comfortable position was difficult. The crutches whacked against the police radio on the dash; Stiles grimaced and the sheriff shook his head. When he was sure Stiles was tucked safely inside the vehicle, he closed the door and grumbled "Stubborn" under his breath.

Sheriff Stilinski rejoined the late-afternoon traffic, navigating with one hand, and asked, "How did it go today?"

"Fine."

"What did Becky say? Any improvement?"

"I guess." Stiles fiddled with the dial on the police scanner and the sheriff swatted his hand away.

"Maybe I should meet with her soon, get an update on your progress."

"Yeah." Sheriff Stilinski sighed. Lately all his conversations with Stiles were one-sided. He had tried being patient, tried supplying topics and asking questions, tried bending over backwards in his attempts to draw Stiles out of himself, but all his efforts had been frustrated. The best he could get were few-word replies. Stiles wouldn't open up to him, wouldn't talk. He wouldn't even allow his father to attend any of his sessions with Becky or Joyce, his psychiatrist. He asked him to leave the room during check-ups with Doctor Ferguson at the hospital. Sheriff Stilinski was relieved to hear – from trained professionals, never from Stiles himself – that Stiles was making leaps and bounds on the road to his physical recovery, but the psychological consequences weren't faring as well. Ferguson had warned him something like this would happen, but he hadn't described just how painful it would be for both of them.

Stiles had shut him out. He was quiet and reserved. He talked little, rarely about himself, and never about that night in the woods. He locked himself in his room for long periods of time, and he didn't engage in any of his favorite activities. He avoided close proximity to his father, hardly looked him in the face, and denied any help the sheriff offered, even with the simplest of tasks. He tried to do everything himself.

The other day Sheriff Stilinski had returned home from work to find the staircase littered with dirty clothes, a dented laundry basket overturned on the floor, and a bruised Stiles halfway down, rubbing at a tender spot on his hip. He had rushed forward, but Stiles had shooed him away. Sheriff Stilinski had lost his temper. He had ordered Stiles to his room and angrily gathered the items up and put them in the wash. He didn't understand why Stiles insisted on doing everything alone. He shouldn't have been trying to get the laundry basket downstairs. His father would have done his load for him. Prior to 'the incident' (in his mind, Stilinski could assign no other term to it), the sheriff had to beg and plead with Stiles to do his chores, yet now, when he should be taking it easy, Stiles seemed determined to injure himself by refusing to ask for help.

"I was thinking about getting take-out tonight. How does Thai sound?" He knew this great restaurant downtown. It was a tad expensive, but he knew Stiles liked their menu.

Stiles shrugged. Great, they had digressed into non-verbal communication. Sheriff Stilinski exhaled heavily. He was at the end of his rope: he had tried concern, patience, understanding, reason, common sense. He had even tried guilt, anger, and avoidance. He had given Stiles space, allowed him to set his own terms. He had poured all his energy into helping Stiles. Nothing seemed to work. He was exhausted, confused, and, if he was honest, hurt. He didn't understand why his son wouldn't open up to him.

Joyce had provided him with pamphlets and advice, recommended books and websites, suggested a support group that met once a week in the Baptist Church basement, for parents whose children had been kidnapped or raped. Sheriff Stilinski had attended one meeting. The testimonies he had heard, from parents whose children hadn't been found or whose children were dead, from mothers and fathers who couldn't reach their children and eventually lost them to suicide or drug addictions, had struck him with such horror and shame he hadn't returned.

Sheriff Stilinski didn't know what else to do. He was limited, exhaustible; he was only human. But he wouldn't give up.

They rode home in silence, each Stilinski lost in his own private thoughts. Sheriff Stilinski parked in front of their house. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. Their neighbor, Mrs Mead, clad in a ragged t-shirt and gardening gloves, was attempting to carry a hideous gnome from her garage to her front yard. He watched her with meditation and amusement, and with a fathomless sadness he couldn't explain. Stiles watched her too. "What are your plans tonight?"

"Dunno. Probably shower, watch TV. Sleep."

Sheriff Stilinski's brow wrinkled. Stiles had been sleeping a lot. Excessively more than usual, even for a teenager. It was all he seemed to do anymore. "You should invite Scott over," the sheriff suggested. "Play some video-games or something. It's been a while since you two hung out. I sorta miss having him around the house."

"Maybe." Stiles opened his door and turned to grab his crutches. Sheriff Stilinski passed them to him, but did not release them. He looked seriously at his son.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Stiles. You should get out, have some fun, be around your friends."

"I'm fine, Dad."

"So you keep saying."

Stiles yanked the crutches from his father's grasp and slowly climbed out of the car. Sheriff Stilinski leaned across the seat. "Hey, Sty."

"What?"

"I'll be home no later than eight. Be careful in the shower, okay? And going up and down the stairs. I worry you might fall."

Stiles rolled his eyes, and for a moment Sheriff Stilinski recognized his son – his headstrong, sarcastic, intelligent, independent, totally impertinent son. "I'm not a little kid. I'll be fine."

"You're right, you're not a kid, but you are _my kid._ Be careful." Stiles mock-saluted and hobbled up the path to the house. Sheriff Stilinski waited until he had made it safely inside before leaving. He dug his cell-phone out of his pocket and dialled Scott's number. If Scott happened to 'coincidentally' drop by to check on Stiles, where was the harm in that?

Stiles grabbed a drink of juice from the kitchen, ascended the stairs, stripped off his clothes, and managed to position himself under the hot stream of the shower in half-an-hour. As he delicately scrubbed his body, he tried not to think of his father or the hurt he had seen in his eyes. Other people may have found it difficult to read Sheriff John Stilinski, but Stiles had learned to read him as easily as a picture book. One glance and Stiles knew what he was thinking or feeling, if something on his mind was troubling him, or if he was missing Claudia. The past few weeks, the sheriff read repetitively: worry, guilt, worry, love, worry, frustration, sadness, confusion, exhaustion, worry, worry, worry. It tore at Stiles to know he was the cause of all these emotions in his father. So he did the one thing he could do: he pushed his father away, pushed everyone away. Bottled everything deep inside, hid his pain, kept quiet. He didn't want to hurt his father. Didn't want him to see his brokenness and weakness. Didn't want his father to look at him and see Marshall, see what Marshall had done to him.

Stiles rubbed a bar of soap over his abdomen. White suds hid his marred skin in a rich lather. Pale yellow splotches the only remainder – and reminder – of the bruises. His own hands on his body felt strange and foreign. He was amazed he could be so traumatized by touch that even his own could bother him. Could bring back the awful memories he was fighting to forget. He wondered if he would ever feel comfortable in his own skin again.

Stiles rinsed the last of the shampoo from his hair, turned off the taps, and stepped clumsily our of the shower. He nearly slipped, and was reminded of his father's warnings of caution. Maybe he did give the sheriff reason to worry about him. He dripped into the purple bath mat. Around him, the room was filled with a thick layer of steam, fogging the lone window and the mirror. He towelled off and dressed quickly in fresh clothes without looking down. For weeks, Stiles had avoided looking upon his own nakedness.

Stiles ran his tongue over his gritty teeth. He remembered now that he hadn't had the energy or desire to brush them that morning – or the night before, for that matter. He cringed at how horrid his breath must smell and at how close Becky had been to his face earlier. She was too polite to say anything – possibly she had dealt with far worse: body odor and grotesque sores, patients who treated her with contempt – but he imagined the stench had nearly knocked her out. He thought she had looked a little green at one point. How humiliating! He liked Becky: she was pretty and friendly, challenging but in a caring way. Now she'd always think of him as the boy with sewage breath!

The way Stiles saw it, he had two options: snap out of this funk and start caring about his personal hygiene, OR keep his gigantic mouth shut. The latter choice appealed to him most, but he knew girls cared about things like _cleanliness_ and effort – at least, one girl he knew did. The one girl he wanted to impress most. He'd never get a girlfriend with garbage breath. Who wanted to feel like they were making out with a trash bin? On the other hand, maybe if he just learned to keep his mouth closed, and _shut the hell up,_ more girls would find him attractive. Cool. Mysterious. In the very least, they'd find him significantly less annoying.

Stiles grabbed the red toothbrush from the cup next to the sink. Its bristles stuck out at odd angles. He should probably buy a new one. His father's blue toothbrush was straight and firm. For Pete's sake, even the sheriff's toothbrush was a model of order and decorum. Even after all these years, it pained Stiles to see only two toothbrushes in the cup instead of three. The little things, he had come to realize, were the most difficult.

He squeezed out a large glob of Colgate paste and scoured ferociously. He tasted mint and blood from his sensitive gums. He rinsed the brush, gargled too-much mouthwash, nearly gagged, bent over the sink, and spit. When he straightened, the mirror had completely cleared and he caught sight of his own reflection – and the man standing behind him, his hands in his pockets, his fanged smirk wide and knowing, his steel eyes laughing. Stiles spun around, his heart hammering in his chest, but there was no one there. Of course, there wasn't. There never had been.

Stiles opened the medicine cabinet and removed one of the several orange bottles labelled with his name. He shook a couple pills into his palm and swallowed them dry. He closed his eyes and repeated desperately to himself: "He wasn't real. He's dead. He wasn't real. He's dead. You're safe."

Stiles kept telling his father he was fine, but moments like this reminded him he wasn't. He could fake sanity all he wanted, but it was a lie. The delusions had first started while he was in the hospital. He would wake up from nightmares and see Marshall standing over him in the dark. He panicked – screaming and thrashing against his sheets, until the light was turned on and the image dispersed. When his father asked him about it, Stiles brushed it off. Chalked the phenomenon up to sleep deprivation and restlessness; ghosts from his nightmares and imprints from his subconscious. He figured once he returned home he'd stop seeing Marshall. Once he was back in familiar surroundings, in his own bed, with his own pillow, he'd be fine.

Only the hallucinations hadn't ceased; they had worsened.

Stiles started seeing Marshall during the day. Glimpses of him in windows and on street corners, leaning against walls and reclining in chairs, standing behind him in mirrors or on the other side of his open locker. Smiling, waving. Waiting. He knew these visions weren't real, but he couldn't quite convince his brain, or his body, of this truth. He would see Marshall and his mind would go blank, his heart seize in terror, his body tense. Phantom pain would shoot through his insides – memories of previous injuries. Warning signs. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to hide his reaction when this happened, to fabricate a plausible cover lie as to why he was staring wide-eyed into space.

Finally, when the hallucinations had become too much for him to deal with on his own, he had told Dr. Joyce. She was the only person who knew. She had comforted and soothed him, assured him he wasn't crazy. Given his circumstances, she said – she always used that word "circumstances" - seeing his attacker was a perfectly natural side effect, especially since he was attempting to suppress his experiences, denied his feelings, and resisted opening up to her or anyone else. Joyce wanted him to tell his father, but he refused. He didn't want his dad to know. He didn't want to add another item to his father's long list of worries. Didn't want this to become another reminder of his fragile sanity, especially this soon after the nogitsune episode. He knew she couldn't break their patient-doctor confidentiality. Instead she had written him a prescription. Medication she promised would make Marshall disappear, if taken regularly.

The pills hadn't worked yet. Stiles hated them, hated the way they numbed his brain and made him feel foggy and detached. How they rid him of not only his hallucinations, but drained his emotions, desires, and thoughts as well. He wasn't himself. He was a ghost. What kind of life was worth living, if he couldn't live as himself? If he was numb, he was vulnerable. He needed to stay alert in order to protect himself. It became a vicious cycle he couldn't escape: if he didn't take the pills, there was Marshall; if he took them, his personality slipped away, he cared little for his own safety or for others, and Marshall was always there waiting as soon as the medication wore off.

Stiles wanted all of this to go away. He didn't want to be crazy. He didn't want to be a victim.

There was a knock on the front door. Before Stiles had a chance to tell them to go away, the visitor let themselves in. He should have locked the door behind him as soon as he got into the house. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He was apparently useless at protecting himself. If there was an axe-murderer in the house, he deserved whatever happened next.

Maybe he could pretend he wasn't home.

"Stiles?"

Damn. Stiles stumbled down the stairs. There, in his entry way, stood Scott and Lydia. Part of him didn't want to see them, wanted them to go away and leave him alone. But his heart gave a quick flip when he saw them, betraying the truth of his contradictory feelings. He was secretly glad they were here. He missed his friends.

"Hey," Scott greeted, gazing somewhere over Stiles' shoulder.

"Hey," Stiles replied, glancing down at his feet. Lydia looked between the two of them and huffed. "Honestly," she muttered, "boys," and strode over to Stiles. Her four-inch heels and his stooped posture put them nearly at eye level. She wrapped her arms around Stiles, nestling herself against him. "Hi," she breathed into the crook of his collarbone.

"Hi." Stiles returned the hug despite his crutches. She smelled wonderful, like always – a mixture of fruits and flowers and a hint of a pleasantly feminine scent he couldn't place.

"Hmm, you smell good," she said, pulling back to look at his face. His words came out of her mouth, and he couldn't suppress the smile spreading across his lips. She smiled back warmly.

Following Lydia's example, tension broken, Scott clapped Stiles fondly on the back before drawing his best friend into a hug. Lydia inwardly fangirl-squealed over their bro-hug and beamed. Stiles led them them into the living room and indicated they should sit on the couch. "What are you guys doing here?" he asked, lowering himself into the recliner. He caught the glance they shared and groaned. "Dad called you, didn't he?"

"He thought you might like some company."

"More like a babysitter," Stiles grumbled.

"Now, Stiles," Lydia chided, "he's just worried about you. We all are."

"It feels like you've been avoiding us," Scott added. "We hardly see you, and you've been...quiet."

Stiles couldn't deny the accusation. "People complain when I won't shut up. They complain when I'm too quiet. I can't win." His tone was piercingly bitter. Scott drew back in surprise. He was used to his friend's sarcasm and biting humor, but normally it was funny or bold, rebellious and self-assured in a way Scott had always admired. This was different: cold, jaded, quietly wrathful, hopeless.

"I didn't mean it that way, bro. You know I didn't."

"He just means you've been reserved lately," Lydia said gently. "We're your friends. We notice when you aren't acting like yourself."

 _Yeah,_ now _you start noticing me,_ Stiles thought, shocked at his own resentment. He knew he had been distant lately, quiet; he was imposing isolation and silence on himself. What was he getting mad at them for? What the hell was wrong with him?

"We want to make sure you're okay." Stiles didn't need to be a werewolf to be able to sense the concern wafting off Scott.

Stiles softened. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me." Scott and Lydia shared another knowing glance. This unspoken communication was starting to irk him. "What?" With her eyes, Lydia conveyed that Scott should take the lead.

"Dude, you are _not_ fine. Besides the fact that I can _smell_ the anxiety coming off you, you've been acting weird, you won't talk about what happened, you're sleeping all the time, your grades are poor, you never leave the house, you don't want to hang out. This is the first time I've been here in weeks, and your _dad_ invited me. Don't tell me you're fine!" Scott had worked himself up; Lydia laid a pink-nailed hand on his shoulder, and he took a calming breath.

"I don't know what you want from me," Stiles said.

"God, Stiles. I want to _help_ you!"

"You don't understand..."

"I want to," Scott pleaded. "Help me understand."

They lapsed into silence. Stiles struggled with a million clashing emotions raging within him. His desire to confide in them, to share his burden, to let them in was strangled by his need to protect them, his hatred of weakness, the horror he secretly carried that if anyone knew the details of that night they'd look at him differently. They'd see him the way he saw himself. They'd see the broken and damaged boy that kept him from looking in the mirror.

"Stiles," Lydia's voice was sharp. Though she had spoken quietly, a current latent in her voice captured and held his attention as if she had screamed. "I want you to listen very carefully. I'm going to tell you something, something very few people know. I want you to pay attention, because I am not going to repeat myself. Is that clear?"

Stiles looked to Scott, who shrugged. He equally had no clue what she was about to say. Lydia was staring at him, her back straight and rigid, waiting for an answer. "Well?"

"Okay."

Lydia took a deep breath and began, "I haven't always been the pretty girl that you see before you-" Stiles opened his mouth to protest – he had known Lydia since they were children, and he had always found her beautiful – but she cut-him off, "No interrupting, okay?" He nodded. "During the summer before we started high school, I suddenly blossomed. My body changed, and I was suddenly attractive." An almost laughable look of horror crossed Scott's and Stiles' faces simultaneously. Was this going to be a puberty story?! "Calm down, I'm just stating facts. Anyway, I had suddenly become the archetypal Pretty Girl, and other people noticed. Male-people specifically. Guys who had never cared about my existence started speaking to me. My friend group changed. I joined the populars, started going to parties. During freshman year, I went to my first official high-school party with some of my friends. Ryan Wilson was hosting-"

"Ryan Wilson?" Scott asked incredulously. "The Beacon Hills Midfielder? He was a legend!"

Lydia's glare burned. Scott's jaw slammed shut with a click. "Shut up and listen. Yes, it was _that_ Ryan Wilson. I went with my friend Jenna; she was his little sister's babysitter or something. We were drinking. Ryan took a special interest in me. I hadn't drank much before, but that night I drank _a lot._ Whenever my cup was empty, Ryan would get me a new one. He was being so sweet and lavishing all this attention on me. I wasn't used to guys liking me. I was flattered and I let my guard down..." Lydia trailed off distractedly. "He tried to take advantage of me."

"What!" Stiles clutched the arm of his chair. Scott's eyes flashed red, and Stiles knew inside he must be seething as angrily as he was.

"I still had enough presence of mind to stop him before it went too far. I called my father and begged him to come get me. The look on Daddy's face: he was so disappointed in his baby girl. I spent all weekend in my room. I dreaded going to school that Monday. Rumors and gossip had already spread. Ryan had told all his friends that he had slept with me, that I was _easy_. I heard the word 'slut' quite a few times that day – but that's not the point. I held my head high, and I acted like their pettiness was beneath me. I wasn't going to let the opinions of hormonal jock-straps with the IQs of Neanderthals and a few jealous witches bring me down. I wasn't going to let them define me. _I_ was going to define myself. And I have. Their malicious slander faded away, and I have worked hard to become the sort of person I want to be, regardless of my past mistakes."

Stiles stared at Lydia in shocked silence. In some minute, subtle way she had transformed before his eyes. He had always admired her strength and self-assurance, but those qualities now took on a deeper meaning.

"Experiences, people, they _don't_ define you, Stiles. Marshall did horrible, unspeakable things to you, and you can't change that. None of us can, as much as we might want to. But you decide how you let those things affect you. They can tear you down or they can make you stronger. I'm not going to push you to talk to us or to make you do anything you don't want to, but don't think I am going to sit by and let you throw your life in the gutter because of some bastard! He doesn't get to take anything from you Stiles. You get to choose who you are." Lydia was impassioned. Each word pierced him like a sword and convicted him.

Stiles had no words to follow up. He stared at Lydia and she returned his gaze fiercely. "I care about you, Stiles. You have a lot of people who care about you. And if it takes Scott and I showing up on your doorstep everyday for the next ten years, that's what we're going to do." Stiles could feel his eyes misting and he tried to wipe at them casually. "Thank you," he whispered, because it was all he could think to say. "Do you guys want something to drink?"

Lydia and Scott stayed for another hour. They spoke no more about the matter, chatting instead about trivial matters, like school and the upcoming lacrosse game. They joked and gossiped, making bets over how long Cheer captain Jenna Wilder and her quarterback boyfriend Martin Brown would stay together this time. "I give it until Friday," Stiles wagered wisely, though he couldn't care less. Lydia's words rattled around inside his head, but he wasn't ready to open up just yet. He needed time to process, to think.

The police cruiser pulled into the drive at half-past six. The trio were laughing. They were swapping embarrassing stories, and Stiles had brought up a childhood memory that trumped all others. Scott's face was beet-red, and Lydia had fallen over in hysterics. Stiles' ribs ached when he laughed, but it felt good. He missed this. Missed fun. Missed letting loose and hanging with his friends. Sheriff Stilinski entered the house carrying a large bag of take-out. "Hello, Lydia. Scott," he grinned, seeing the smile on his son's face. "Would you like to stay for supper? I'm sure I've got enough."

"No thank-you, Sheriff Stilinski," Lydia declined gracefully, checking the time on her phone. "I should be heading home now." She leaned down over Stiles and kissed his cheek. Her long red hair brushed against his skin. "Think about what I said," she whispered.

"I will."

"I should get going too," Scott said, fist-bumping Stiles in parting. "Hey, Lydia! Wait up! Can you drive me home?"

Stiles closed the door behind his friends and shuffled into the kitchen. His father was laying out a number of cardboard cartons on the table. The food smelled delicious. Stiles' stomach rumbled greedily. Sheriff Stilinski smiled. "I hope you're hungry."

Stiles ate with a relish he hadn't felt in a long time. Sheriff Stilinski beamed over his son's appetite, serving second and third helpings each time Stiles cleaned his plate. Stiles asked him about his day, and they exchanged a few light-hearted sentences. Sheriff Stilinski scraped his fork against the bottom of the pad thai noodles carton. "So Lydia and Scott came by. That's nice."

"I know you called them, Dad," Stiles revealed, fried rice spraying from his mouth.

Sheriff Stilinski didn't even try to appear sheepish. "Yes, well, I'm glad I did. You seemed like you were having a good time."

Stiles smiled lightly. "Yeah, I was."

"See? That's great!"

Stiles knew his father was happy to see him acting like himself, but his excitement made him feel guilty for reasons he couldn't quite explain. He grew quiet and contemplative, picking absently at his meal. Sheriff Stilinski noticed the change in Stiles' demeanor and wondered if he had been the cause. He decided to drop the issue, but not before having his final say: "I love you, Stiles. I know the past two months have been difficult, but I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone, so you don't need to act like you are. Marshall's dead. Giving him the power to dictate your life, that's like letting him win. No one has power over you but you – and sometimes me; I am your father, and you're still a minor, but you get my drift." Stiles stared at his father incredulously. His words echoed Lydia's sentiment so exactly, Stiles wondered if the Universe was trying to tell him something and he was finally hearing it. Sheriff Stilinski misinterpreted the look on Stiles' face and immediately changed the subject. He'd kick himself all night for speaking that man's name in his house. Stilinski pasted on a smile and asked, "How about a movie after supper?"

There were no dishes to be washed, so Sheriff Stilinski and Stiles settled into the living room to watch a movie on cable. Choosing a film was easier said than done. They immediately ruled out campy creature-features and horror flicks. Sheriff Stilinski didn't like contemporary comedies about weed and a million other sexist and illegal activities that made him cringe. Stiles wasn't in the mood for a war flick, a western, or a courtroom drama – his father's favorite genres, and his father axed any mention of sci-fi. In the end, they settled on a Morgan Freeman movie. "Your mother always loved his voice," Sheriff Stilinski said as he scrolled through the channels, and that settled it.

Stiles went to bed as soon as the movie ended, though it was early. He left his father alone in front of the television, lounging in his armchair, a half-full beer in his left hand. As he began the tedious ascend upstairs, he didn't notice as Sheriff Stilinski's gaze drifted wistfully from the screen to his back. If the sheriff wanted to call something after his son, he kept it to himself.

Stiles grabbed a clean pair of pajamas and locked himself in the bathroom to get ready for bed. He took pains to wash up and clean his teeth. He had to admit: feeling clean did help improve his emotional state, just as Joyce claimed it would. (Maybe, he thought, he should listen more closely to her advice; she could be right about other stuff too.) He turned away from the mirror as he peeled off his t-shirt, and paused with it over his head. "What the hell am I doing?" When had he become so ashamed of his body that he couldn't stand to face his reflection? He exhaled slowly, turned slowly, and – he saw himself. 140 pounds of pale flesh, dark hair, brown eyes, a six-pack that could never quite develop because of his love for curly fries; 5 feet 10 inches of teenager that had grown from a tiny embryo comprised of the best parts of John and Claudia Stilinski. He had her nose, his father's hands. He traced the red, jagged lines along his chest and torso with his fingers. He twisted to examine his back, the slender curve of his spine, the solid shoulder blades, the pink skin of claw marks.

It was him, just him, plus a few scars. But what was life without scars? Scars were stories, proof his past was real. Stories he wished weren't true, a past he wished had never happened, but forgetting wasn't the answer. The scars would never let him forget, but for the first time in two years, he didn't want to forget. He could allow the scars to continue to hurt him, or he could use them to make him stronger. He could let these scars define him, or he could choose to define the scars. They didn't brand him as a victim: they proved he was a _survivor_.

He had faced hell and lived. The worst thing he could possibly imagine had happened, and he had survived. There was nothing left to fear. He hadn't been beaten down or broken, hadn't surrendered. His friends, his father, had fought for him, had refused to give up on him. He needed to keep fighting for himself.

Stiles knew he was there without looking. Marshall perched on the toilet seat eyeing him appraisingly, one hand raised in the air, claiming responsibility for the marks on the boy's skin. Stiles didn't reach for his pill bottle. He faced the apparition straight-on. Stared into those hollow eyes – now blue, now silver. "I'm not afraid of you. You will never hurt me again. You lost. You're dead, and I'm still here. _I am not afraid of you._ "

Marshall disappeared. Stiles doubted he was gone for good, but he knew if he saw him again, he would not be afraid.

Stiles laid awake in bed. He was tired, but he couldn't turn his mind off. He kept replaying Lydia's words in his head. He started to think seriously about his sessions with Joyce. He ruminated on the many wonderful relationships in his life, reflecting on how fortunate he was to have people who loved and supported him. Just this once, he wanted to do what he wanted, and what he wanted was to surround himself with love and laughter. He also had to admit to himself that building walls and keeping his friends out wasn't right. He decided it wasn't fair to push them away. As noble as his intentions were – trying not to burden them with his problems and messes – they fell flat. Real friendship was a two-way affair. If Scott was upset, or if his dad was hurting, Stiles would feel hurt if they felt they couldn't come to him. He would want them to feel they could always talk to him, confide in him, depend on him. He owed it to his loved ones to be honest with them.

Stiles decided he wanted to heal, and he knew he needed to open up. One person, at the first, and possibly more as he found healing and grace. One person to start – the right person, to love and support him unconditionally. The one person who would never turn away from him, no matter what. He knew immediately who that person was, and it was not Dr. Joyce, who sat primly with a clipboard in her lap, charging his father outrageous prices by the hour, hiding behind her anonymity and university degrees. He owed her nothing, but there was one person – one man – he owed everything.

It was quarter-past eleven. John Stilinski's bedroom door was open. He liked to sleep with it open in case Stiles needed him in the night. He was in bed reading, the glasses he hated wearing in public perched on the end of his nose. He looked up when Stiles rapped lightly on the door. "Everything all right, Sty?" he asked in surprise. Stiles was crutch-less and barefoot, panting faintly and leaning against the frame. It must have taken him a great deal of time and effort to shamble down the hallway. He read the determination on Stiles' face and knew this was a good sign.

"Yeah. I was wondering if we could...talk."

Sheriff Stilinski set his novel – a crime thriller – on the nightstand and removed his reading glasses. "Sure." Stiles stepped awkwardly into the room and glanced around. Sheriff Stilinski pat the empty space next to him. "Come here, kiddo," he encouraged. "Come have a chat with your old man."

Stiles smiled, shuffled over agonizingly slowly, and sat on bed. He looked at his father's face and he could see his soul: brimming with love and devotion, strength and a peace Stiles felt he understood but couldn't explain. His father waited patiently for him to start, and Stiles remembered now what an awesome listener his father had always been. "I'm not okay," he admitted, and just like that the words were spilling from him. Spewing forth rapid-fire. His father listened quietly, nodding here and there. He never interrupted, even when the tears started.

When Stiles finished, Sheriff Stilinski drew him into a hug. He held him until Stiles finally broke away. Stiles smiled and his father handed him a kleenex to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. Stiles felt a million times lighter. Better than he had in months. "Can I sleep with you tonight?" he asked.

John smiled and nodded. "But the second you steal the covers," he warned, "I'm kicking your ass out."

Stiles laughed. "Deal." He climbed under the sheets, like he had when he was younger and had been woken in the night by scary dreams or strange noises. The two of them had slept together a lot after Claudia's death. He could feel his father's warmth, reassuring and present, beside him. Stiles didn't need to do this on his own. He had never been alone. Pierce was wrong, it wasn't luck that had saved him. It was love: the love of his father and friends. The kind of love Marshall Laundry would never understand.

Stiles knew he was going to be okay.

 **END**

* * *

 **The longest chapter is also the last. I am truly sad to see the story end, but I loved writing it and feel I poured a great deal of myself into its composition. I hope you enjoyed the story, and that it was able to transport you to a different world (where Stiles Stilinski exists; how do I get to this world?!), if only for a short time.**

 **Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, faved, and followed. You will never know how much your support has meant to me. An especially big thank-you to readers who took the time to review. Words cannot express how much I appreciate your feedback and encouragement. I have loved hearing from you. You make me feel as if the world is a bit smaller and friendlier. You're awesome.**

 **The support of you wonderful fellow Stiles-lovers helped me develop what I had originally planned as a simple thirteen-chapter fic into twenty-two chapters! This is the single longest story I have ever written in my life (original fiction included), and I owe that to you!**

 **I hope I have clearly articulated just how much I appreciate all you fanfiction lovelies! If you are interested in reading more of my TW fiction, I have posted a tentative story schedule on my profile under the section labelled "Upcoming Fanfiction." (Most of the stories are Stiles-centric, because he is bae =D ). If you are interested in a particular story, send me a message or drop a line in a review, and I can do some shuffling.**

All my love,  
NTS


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